« Writing, Poems, Poetry | Main | because (a middle-of-the-night poem) »
Death is unkind
to the living.
It hollows us out,
leaves us stumbling,
pretending there is ground
under our feet. How
is it possible to be
a vacancy, yet so full
of grief?
for Sheryl Noethe
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Ah, it's always good read your poems. I do hope you reclaimm your voice.
Posted by: Cathy | 19 February 2014 at 07:14 PM