Full clear light, sunshine, sharply
etched colour, and I am
mired in fatigue.
Is this how sorrow feels,
slipping along your spine?
And whose sorrow?
Unjust that
I should open my eyes, should
look upon grey sea and implacable
isles (they break
the waves and are not
submerged)
when he won't rise
or see another
day. By what
name or
reason comes such
undoing, such
cessation,
such unroping
loop of heart or life?
He stops
now;
forever slips
away.
Instant;
accident;
her world,
their world,
our world
unmade.
In memory of Steve Rowe.
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