A shack made of ribs. A house made of out. A car made of rust. A smile made of doubt.

It's death there is no cure for-- life the long disease. If we're lucky. Otherwise, short trip beyond. And below.

GriefIn the night I brush my teeth with a razor

I am no longer ashamed how for weeks, after, I wanted to be dead--not to die, mind you, or do myself in--but to be there already, walking amongst all those I'd lost, to join the throng singing, if that's what there is-- or the nothing, the gnawing--So be it.

May God or whoever else spare you the arms of bereavement specialists-- grant mercy from the Team dedicated to your transition in this difficult time yet who won't tell you a thing & know far less.

The day will come when you'll be dead longer than alive--thankfully not soon.

It's hard beinghuman.

GriefThe borrowed handkerchief where she wept returned to me months later, starched, pressed.

Often, in death, everything else fails. We are left only with the music and the meaning of poetry.