Of course we’re all in different stages of dying,

but it seems that those who are closest to it

are mostly the ones talking about it.

Every Wednesday it has rained since the rainy Wednesday of your death,

those nights, that rain – comfort, comfort – bringing you again.

I fast to this but for fluids, my body’s parched plains thirsty for each teeming bead

& all that hush of shimmering liquid slate.