the fossil record
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The Grief Rehearsed
Suppose
our words that sound so fake once said
are really all we have to say, that these
our bodies as they are just now, can tease
no more seduction, charge is ever wed
to unreality, that mystery's dead
and nothing is ineffable, that trees
are wood with winds not spirits in the leaves,
our sole neighbors the dolts who nextdoor bed.
The rich insomniac sees the yellow light
under the doorframe crawl to edge a cell,
confine grimmer than that of snoring thief
in county jail. For you and me the grief
rehearsed becomes its own destructive hell,
kaleidoscopic turning in the night.
Louie Crew