It’s not being black and white to
GREY a life: some of the finest sketches
have been made of pencil finely
shorn, and drawn with glorying perspicacity.
And the GREY of accuracy deserves its place;
and the colour of ambiguity – gently torn away,
like pincers on punishable
also deserves its square metres on this rock
we live and hurt, and
damage and love.
And there is so much we can touch without that
love: just its memory, even when fake
and taken like cheap photo snapped
and wrapt in newspapers lost to our cost, and
maybe about our coats, still (and then:
who’s to know?
will, for sure).
And so to deep pockets so long unvisited,
lofts and attics secretly left
tend to unburden, bereft of all sensitive meaning,
the demise of grand details –
such secrets as these on
discovery: the occasion as a rule
the deaths of those peeps
we cheekily call
loved ones … I mean those ones who ruled over
us small … but what does that mean, dear you,
you and you?
What can “loved ones”
really mean …
… after this?