They say beat a path to another door, seek
the gloss of some society.
Such unreason, as if we mourners could
like eels travel so far from our lagoons.
We can only toy with fact and fiction.
Multiple reflections come so easy
to the grieving mind whose grid of tumbling
images oscillate at crazy angles and circle
back to one thing only: crying spells.
As when his shadow steps into the hall.
I see it slip from room to room and out
the iron gate but I, immobile in this
melancholy trance, can't get up to verify.
So I let myself wonder, was it him, is it true?
And that thought--every thought--ferries me
back to raucous pain.