the fact that when one dies
one doesn’t go anywhere
one stays in place
doesn’t move until
nothing is left
it grieves to part with such a great sadness
it grieves to abandon it for small joys
like a farm in a field
where lies a rake without a middle tooth
a tired fork leans back
against the cowshed door
a dunghill behind the barn
is specked by turquoise flies
gilded by the evening sun
in your eyes there stand
long-dried tears
stand in the corners as punishment
silent as dust
am I supposed to wish you
to live long enough
so that you can’t have a leak
