You were laid, just so, in the
damp heat and cicada song
of summer.
Now, so unlike your sleep,
always tangled and damp,
there is precision in your rest.
Yet today there is
nothing stately in our shared unrest:
all this felled granite -
a suddenness
of violence;
a riot of grey.
I meant to visit you sooner,
to bring you
a handful of stones.
I meant to grieve more
softly, but the chaos
has made my grief
razor sharp again.
Now there is no place
to leave my offerings.
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