|A Fine-Tuned Loss
A fine-tuned loss is a delicate mechanism.
The gears grind together to yield movement:
Hush, the time-piece ticks.
I have not moved.
I am clunky and loose.
Grief is wet and heavy,
cotton soaked in molten wax and hardening slowly.
Those who say they can feel the dead
hovering over them lie.
It is a snare in the gyre,
a crick in the workings,
a strike at hope.
I shake the small urn of ashes when I want to talk to you,
straining to hear the clink of your bones against the metal.