Hiding on this tiny rock
its light is falling arm over arm
brought down as hammer blows
and mountains clinging to the sun
the way mourners will gather
and aim for your forehead
–it’s not right for you dead
to lower your eyes once they’re empty
–they have so much darkness
are still looking for tears
and all around you the Earth
splitting open a single afternoon
up close–you are touching seawater
without anything left inside
to take the salt from your mouth.
Grey Sparrow Journal 