Who will offer advice to the living?
There are those who write in fanciful script:
they mistake surface meaning
for music,
misapprehend, fail
to understand: you must accommodate clarity
before courting light.
Don’t externalize pain. In this wintry landscape,
glint in ice and snowdrifts, frost
splaying fractals, red saplings
weathering asperity,
everything is already in flames.
Who will claim your keening heart? The cold air
invoking a hyper-lucidity of senses.
When the dead depart, they leave a wake behind them.
Clutched, in engram, indelible, each to each.
Some days are impossible: the moon in its ambit
destroys you.
