New York, 2011
Grief, they say, has four steep walls

cut from black stone. Water sheers

off the sides into a giant pool:

the edges milk themselves violently

towards a hollow centre.

The level of water is sunk so low

no birds skim it. You cannot hear yourself

cry above the threshing sound.

But if you sit long enough, observe

how sunlight edges round the mouth

like a man scaling a ledge.

By noon, its surface glistens like tar.

At night, tiny lights fixed to the floor

people the depths.