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Morning would not budge nor move, not even sigh,

keeping grief at bay.

Too early for liquor, of course, (it might not have helped;

such numbing doesn’t last.)

But noon refuses to show her face and

no shadow lurks.

The lost will not return for a toast, and

(try as they might) hard pews can’t

stiffen resolve against tears.

This, this too early release from gravity

weighs much,

we realize our names are written in water –

We, then, corrupters of healing

have our own uses for the silent spaces,

hung like so much 6^th grade artwork.

But what can we do when the bars aren’t open

yet and the gallery owner has run off

with the produce girl?

Liturgy or litany emerges too close

and sulfur snakes around hugging pantsuits.

Speckled hues accent purple astromeria

stripes that cannot be broached.

Loss – watery with faith but torrential without –

eulogized by a mispronounced gospel.

Afternoon sun cannot smile in south Georgia

summer, neither waiting on asphalt.

 Throwing clumps in after you is meant as salve.

And now with liquid fortifying, we realize the first

days have slipped away where we will reimagine living.