Where have all our wee hours vanished
when seated, we need to lean a little to the right?
This is the reason for the worst of our lives, a woman
has dressed herself in cuss-black, in afterlife in her own home.
In the background, an endless strumming.
A man she speaks with, himself left
the sea at seventeen in this disbelief of the breeze
carrying the old wives' on dark clothing and mourning-
How could he have, early on, in his heart kept
how the night at times would need
the dark land of her lap, fringes
of her shawl to stray as far as the knots of
our vision can let go?
When she lets the cigarette that could be her
impatience for us, when she lets its ash
to the sound wood, we help ourselves to
the ghost of their smoke. And the man, he sits with her.
And the woman, she listens, leaning to her right,
not for the last time to our bodily functions,
true loves, a graphic death in the city, and the rest
of the world we do not bring up over the dining table.
Later in our sleep, we awaken to a silk thread on our beds,
and softly, the guitar we need not strain to hear
when the last of the waves have left us.