The Pool

1 February 2014

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.

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