I heard a sound from the grave,
but was it you?
You, whose muted voice is still
present.
Present in the windy day and the
rustling night that cannot conceal it.
It is there in this heated
brain, in the tears infrequent
now, in the chimes that
you set for the wind.
Wind that carries it to me,
even across time,
for the wound has
not healed,
and the grave, it calls.

 

1/9/2024