And still, we are confused

when a loved one dies — 

as though we didn’t ask, first,

to know.

My sincerest apologies,

I forgot how much

it hurts when the air you breathe,

it burns, and the way you see

it’s worse.

My most earnest regrets,

I didn’t know you’re

hiding, I didn’t see you

crying, I didn’t believe you could be

lying.

Sweet, sweet separation

between river

and her rock, pen

and her paper, tree

and her leaves, night

and her starlight, such

sweet, sweet distinction.

Rather, those silver-bar

sand dunes gleam white,

under those stars that

never set over black

On deaf tempest

and wild fire

my muted plea

fell, merely more

for the pyre.