KIT’S FUNERAL
Where and when do our paths cross?
We call out our commentaries
across measureless distance
as we walk the roadless spaces.
We settle for echoes of each other’s voices,
even the shreds of our own returning.
At a death our paths cross.
Startled, we congregate
like birds caught unawares
by a strange new season.
In groups we peck
at the awful truth,
whispering our anecdotes,
changing the shape and constitution
of a thin life in the telling.
Legend climbs like bindweed
and the familiar cast of face
and form adopts new contours.
Nothing endures. Nursing
bright new grief, we catch
our homeward trains alone.
Through brief windows, light blinks
on a disordered world. Closing
one book, we open another.
10:38:29 PM 
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