I had imagined grief to be the trilobite
If I cannot tell you everything does that make what’s left myth?
Some of us are graves of our own occasion and carry that / to the end
It reminds how first life is not enough, then too much.
I know it’s the brain, not you, / that loves, or fails to love.
Days and days repeat in superfluous / museums of routine.
your new goal is to learn to breathe / through bones
If God fists the bolt, does it matter / if I reach the farmhouse?
please god not another poem about windows