Death

Relay

The days are handed off like bright batons.

A runner stutters into dark, the night
ahead. Ahead, dawn tucked beneath her arm,

someone else begins to hammer
the pulsing slope of mount grief,

while, in her wake, another navigates
the barberry thicket of what might

have been achieved. Who she was or will be
keeps her company the far side of the track,

winded, lurching forward, looking back.

YOU CANNOT WRITE THESE THINGS DOWN
you cannot write these things down
you cannot write them down
you cannot write them down
says the singer of praises.
the warm draft of summer
the burn of stone on bare feet
the blood of my rivers--
you cannot write this down
you cannot create calligraphies of pain
says the singer of sorrows.