In the silence dreams came
and brought to mind your silhouette against the sky
and you changed into a bird carrying hurt bigger than your own
and this brought to mind your cold, stained fingers,
those cut and folded wings placed in an envelope
and that brought to mind
how well we fought
to the bitter end.
in which you stand like a tree
putting out green, unfolding leaves,
bountiful; a lantern glimmering with blood-red fruit
so much riper than
the sharp words that cut us short, hollowed us out.
In this emptiness
your knife is still sharp
it has gouged a pit in the passage of years
full of darkness.
Silence, in which we carried on,
making us act out bad dreams,
enfolding us in all those dark clouds,
proffering no handy little mirror for you to look in
that rain is brighter than anything your cloudshad to offer.