(Even at night, ice on the ground bears
witness to the blackness of those “secret hours,”
always awake to the cold
sprawl,
sky’s frozen lake.)
Think of all the things you cannot hold
and don’t grieve.
(“We’re still alive!” says Rachel.)
And don’t grieve.
Don’t grieve for young times when there was less
to fear,
as you casually hurled grenades at encroaching
future,
or for the dream you had of swarming sharks,
or for men as they
make love to bottles or
women as they
make love to bottles,
don’t grieve for the unearthly procession of grandmothers
that were brought in with the mail,
for fingers lost to machinery,
for hearts lost to false hearts, or
environmental mirages.
Oh love love love look how you cry
on the inside.
Oh love love love look how you cry
on the inside
and don’t grieve
(“We’re still alive!” says Rachel)
and don’t grieve.
Don’t grieve for Jason Molina
he’s not listening.
Don’t grieve for Jason Molina,
there aren’t enough tears on tap in the world.
Don’t grieve for him, once started
where’s the stopping.
.
And all the things you cannot hold
I cannot hold.
Mornings: morning when a scrub jay
hops on the desk.
Nights full of fear and nights
full of comfort.
Sacrifice your carefully curated objects
to the truer abyss.
The truer abyss is adorned with
gold chains that slipped down the drain,
jaspers and agates that fell off
the edge of the lookout.
Don’t grieve for the truer abyss,
in truest form it both hears you
and doesn’t care.
And love love love
look how you cry
on the inside.
And love love love
don’t grieve,
don’t grieve,
don’t grieve.
1/11/15
