#silverchest

The usual morning glories / twist up through banks of gone-wild-by-now holly; / crickets for song, morphos for their glamour, which / is quiet-—blue, and quiet.

“Let memory be

It is hard to see anyone who has become / like your own body to you. And now I can’t forget.

So the dead become earth and then nothing, things that will never matter not in the way they used to, for-                                                           yes, they used to, or so we tell ourselves, pretending grief is like that.

In the end, desire may turn out to be no different from any other song—                                                                       sing, and be at last released from it.

You: the dark that nothing, not even the light, displaces. You, who have been the single leaf that won’t stop tossing, among the others. For you.

Tragedies are happening everywhere in the world, beside things that aren't technically tragedies, though they include suffering, pain, death in its more humiliating versions, to remind that some of us will be less spared, and some will not.

I think we ruin or we save ourselves.