Pledge yourself now to abjectness,
and if you’d ask for
rest from your grief
to dying his death.
Why should I force
what custom requires
when my heart feels
like a moth-eaten shirt?
And why mourn in the
Dirt beside him,
when all my thoughts
are slime-filled pits?
Grief has broken my
body’s bearing;
why should I shatter
pitchers and cups.
