...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The one briefly present

is every breathed-into thing. A person
is no thing, of course, in the way
that word's used, and words read
in volumeless, voluminous waste,
incapable of weakening sad's dominion.

This arrival comes in light of a smile
attached to one whom I expected to,
later and without expectation, send me
a dispatch from a life beyond my ken,
as anybody's is for you, for me, and
who will now not be sending it.
What's the proper tribute? What loss.