What Of Action, Of December

It’s warm and our lights are out. The torch song unspools in the back. I sit and write to your grave center. There’s no mysterious thing. The particles that connected you came and went. We use heavy and heavier words and no map. Only falling avails us. This is some beginning, a frag of freak dream. All things in line, stable, like some pitch you made when we existed. I’m out of coffee and my veins don’t throb. I’m just sweet, checking the grey plastic in all the aisles of our dumb civilization. In every shack a computer, belittled lamb of sod. I write this thing damned near every day. Voices and music overlay. By whatever is useless, we tug the snow down. Trouble is for beauty and the dead.