Seven Ways of Mourning

1 May 2014

1
Your name bends out of reach,
the final spike shreds the skins
of my remembering.


2
Engraved on stone, words
tell: they came to this country
they lived here, and died.


3
To show you scarlet
bougainvillea in autumn –
your dark hound refused it.


4
Throw waiting hours
down like coins in black water:
lost, they shake like stars.


5
The name rests, a bench
by the sea: fingertip touch
on each breaking wave.


6
If everything ran
out, each vessel empty, clean,
would muscle turn to stone?


7
Forgetting is like
light on sharp edged fences,
clears spaces between.

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