*
You fill in the name then prop it
with the same black ink
that will widen for the underline

and keep the word from falling
as your shadow still holding on
to the pen and your fingertips

that stop by twice a day
and each evening draw a name
on wood the way rings in a tree

keep count how many times
you circle her graveside
to keep it from moving, warmed

under a sun made from paper
whose silence goes on living
as just another word for two.

*
It's all they know --these drops
fall, then feed --by instinct
coil around their prey till a puddle

oozes out of the ground --rain
will never stop swallowing you dead
though for a few hours at a time

you become water, make your escape
as mist where there was none before
rising the way your tears even now

are burning out between your fingers
as the stench you need for ashes
and forgetfulness --you become a sea

ankle deep, with tides and a shoreline
where something will happen
someone will turn up pulling a boat.

*
The man in the mirror pictures you
covering his forehead with a cap
the way a grave is held in place

by a lid piecing together his grey hairs
makes you lean closer to the glass
--it's a ritual, a tight fit

and though you tilt the brim side to side
the dirt stays blanketed with ice
and every morning now--the man facing you

wants you to close his eyes then sing to him
over and over the same lullaby, help him
remember the darkness, its little by little.

*
The lamp she drank from never dries
is kept on though its glint
still remembers when this cup

was lit by boiling water then darkened
for clouds and the turbulence
when you would reach in, hands on fire

and among the coat hangers a dress
still warm, dangling, slowing down
snared, swallowing the sleeves

--from this light a tide still goes out
as the hot glue keeping the cup open
fastened to every coast, every rim

stained with its emptiness and your mouth
coming back every few hours to touch
where her lips should be.

*
Before paper becomes paper it already knows
a great weight was needed: ink that will drift
into a sea as the silence mourners leave

for bottom stones though you, dead,
can tell from the stillness a boat is near
were given a ticket the way gas lamps

now line these streets so each grave
is lit, is fastened to the ground
by those footsteps from someone

who offers their hand disguised as a note
asking you to come or let it in as rain, puddles
drenched, dripping from each word and fingertips.