How To Say It
The words sink like shipwrecks like bullets with their singular velocity. My friend’s brother is dead. He drank too much, let his lungs go. It was his own fault, the bitter ones said. At the end, he shoved everyone out. Who can blame him? His stone heart is a cloud now. Whose time will come next? Storm taken. War taken. A tiny fracture in a cell. What are we left with? The laying out – the sponge, a bowl and pitcher. The field more mossed and mineraled than before. My friend said, He’s on his way now, poor soul. Head of thunder, his finger with its nicotined nail. On his way. The rarified air. Everything but his name, on its way.