There is always one more thing to grieve,
One more memorial to loss.
The friend who turns away orOne more memorial to loss.
The one where distance and time
Create silence and it keeps growing
Ever and more awkward.
The thing placed in our hands that beats
With joy and somehow that holding
Becomes grasping and desperate
Without any space at all.
It is always someone or
Something turning strange—
The connection corroded,
Eaten away piece by piece,
Choice after choice;
Cowardice instead of courage.
Would that I were made of
Braver stuff. I am not
A hard man, though I have hardened.
I miss more things than I thought
I would have at this age. I thought
I was finished with this longing.
