We worried
like weary crows
over your trail of clothes

where we found your affairs
like bars
bent apart again,
straight stories slurring backward
and untold.

We are left now
as stenographers
recalling every pill or else sadness
from a book we may also bury.

You once told me
we are unknowable
but for our company,
yet we are
all of us swallowed
sure as lumps.

We are not holding you now
as your pall or box or sucking mud.
I will not drink whatever is in your belly.
But you may have been right.

02/16/2022

Posted on 02/16/2022
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