Over

Time’s gravity drags us down –

down towards inevitable loss.

And still I can’t fit in with it all;
looking back on things that appeared
as real as any moving thing can be,

I won’t accept their death,

don’t accept death. And so

rooms look different when eyes shed tears;

I see a wretched face alone.

I want the tears to well, burst open windows, doors,

want to be carried upstream to the breaking point

and fix things.

We hold on as we must, keep things that once occurred –

things that followed all the rules, that we know

did only what they were allowed – like corpses,

shaking them to kid ourselves they stirred,

crying them to re-engage the flow.