Working and crying.
Your death must be loved this much.
You have to know the grief—now.
Standing by the water’s edge,
looking down at the wave
touching you. You have to lie,
stiff, arms folded, on a heap of earth
and see how far the darkness
will take you. I mean it, this, now—
before the ghost the cold leaves
in your breath, rises;
before the toes are put together
inside the shoes. There it is—the goddamn
circle of beauty and time.
You have nothing to be sad about.