Late in Lockdown: 1

I cried for you my dear, it seems
and said some words I found
among the rituals, socially-approved,
that frame the sullen emptiness of grief.  Our loss.

dodging fleeting bolts of sleep and dreams,
I am afraid to stir the lees of times –
once-experienced, excessively-remembered –
whose less-than-perfect certainty
and smooth-worn grooves of memories
afford me no protection;
against the flooded pits, the silent slate-quarries
you did not wish to see

by oppressions, by a muffled world seen from a window,
draped in soured traces of older, gendered, roles:
would you dare admit your part in this?
Is it my time to go?  Since timing is what matters…

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