Grief in The Language of Singularity
“How are you?”
I say, “I’m fine.”
Sometimes I say, “I’m learning the language of time,— you see.”
Some know, and look at me with a show of some quick sketch of eternity,
Because, it’s all about time.
I am ‘I’ these days,
A pronoun solipsism,
Given by grief—-you see.
Lost is ‘we’, consumed by singularity—-
Time on my hands: A narration,
A story of bones and ash,
Simple, clean and gone ,
Long buried in the garden,
Covered with flowers whose
Spring will never come.
Done is time ahead, except in the short run—-
Time on my hands,
Time in my soul
Given to a droll, “I am fine.’
Minute by minutes past the way everyday ,
All pivoting on that one passing last breath,
Long gone by now in a sea of time.
Waves of anguish still wash upon its shore
Memoirs in foamy fragments
And bits of this and that in the frothy debris of haunting memory.
The door opens on an empty house,
filled with the perfectly simple, gone reverential.
Ghosts speak the language of singularity,
Wander in a lost world,
Often speaking the ancient tongue of bird song
In hoarse tweets and tiny bleats of sorrow.
The House is empty except for me, —– you see,
To the casual passer-by its not haunted—-except for me.
Every tomorrow plays as if, as if—alive.
Some recognize the singular me,
Really see and know I am not a ghost,
But now speak in the language of singularity.
The very old and most women know the look
For they too speak the language of time —-you see..