I die, but when the grave shall press…
Weep not, but think that I have passed
Before thee o’er a sea of gloom
—emily brontë
I picture her o’er
above, as old antique oar. Unusable
now. But how it sweeps that widest room
the sea, with tangible love, makes the passing
less earthy, or the rowing seem airier
grief going over choppy dark waters
without stooping to dip
no v beginning to ripple
no ounce of division pressing
this current lip.