this sound moves, now, to fill a hole left empty by love.
ragtime music plays from a spot under the eaves, drifting
through the swamp grass and eases the air where your
body once lay. it's no coincidence, this night, this sound, this
midnight air. it was never a coincidence, love never is, the
dirt cupping the sweetened sky, cradling everything anyone
ever knew about you.
and where were these sounds when you called out from the earth,
stretched out your arms and laughed, the noise never answered.
it swept itself across your heels on a southern afternoon, the lightest
skimming, the worst way to love you. where was the noise when you
left to swim the world around, then crumbled home, the dirt on the
whitest kitchen floor.
this sound moves, now, to dig a hole left undug by love.
it seeps into the earth where your body might have lain, once, it fills
your space, it tells your story to the night. it speaks softly to life,
it sings slowly to death. this sound is a blanket of fog, and it lives
on everything. no one remembers your name.