If It Ever Happens that a Candle Goes Out
It’s never the same longing
that leads me into the dredges at the fishery.
It’s always something unclear, muddied
by what gathers around my eyes.
Something like a cuckoo calls the hours
like an old clock, only not the hours
that are essential. I think I see the day
tossing back what it is shown. But you cannot hope
backwards or in reverse. Someone I love
has died, I am certain, but I cannot tell who.