What if this present were the world’s last night

and we watch as one by one all of our petty

fights fly,

flee far from sight like

the night we lowered your body into the ground.

Nobody

made a sound, except the dull fuzz of the leaves

like television screens, trees

leaving auburn wakes, and how all of the aches continued

to ache. Tongues still tie, mayflies still die, the swing

still swings, swung in nature’s mundane

Monday breeze,

and how every living thing somehow continues to breathe.

See,

what if this present were the world’s last night

and nothing

in this living world has ever taught me how to grieve.

​