Thursday, December 3, 2015

It's not working

Some say reach out.
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.