From The Language of Grief
Days
were almost
the same
as before,
different only
in unquantifiable ways,
fractions
of moments,
the strangeness, newness
blunted by activity.
Almost any kind
would do:
the card playing,
the food cooking.
the eating and more
eating.
We laughed at
anything then,
even stupid things
could be funny.
needed to be,
laughter like
rain-pour:
slashing,
mindless,
cleansing.
You would give
more now.
Life, you understood,
was one small exercise
in giving
and death simply
cessation of that ability.
Nights were a different
ballgame, played
in a foreign park without
lights or clear rules.
At night the voices grew
bold, forging elaborate
dialogues replete with
idiosyncrasies of conversation.
And other times
just that one
howling
syllable.
