Facing it

I look at it now 

and then

     with haste,

his remaking--

butterfly 

back to worm 

to zygote and

pre-zygote.

I re-hear death.
Its rattlings.

My cold white sorrow.

I bring it all back 

for another look.

To be certain of his mighty 

     gone-ness.

It is good to do it--
to turn and look 

into that hole
and really face it.

Even momentarily.