April 2nd, 2020



Control it now, it can't do any good,
your grief for your great friend, killed on the day
he & his wife & & three
were moving to a larger house across the street.
Our dead frisk us, & later they get better at it,
our wits are stung astray.

till all that we can do is groan, bereft:
tears fail: and then we reckon what is left,
not what was lost.
I noticed at this point a divided soul
will swamp & lose:

that hoping forward, brisk & vivid one
of which will nothing ever be heard again.
Advance into the past!
Henry made lists of his surviving friends
& of the vanished on their uncanny errands
and took a deep breath.