There’s an over in the attic,
An ending of special places – covered.
Covered like a pie on a summer day,
Cobwebs sticky lace over things that are under.
I can’t name what is hidden;
Is it nameless, or am I mute?
The first name of sadness is you, and
The surname of sadness is salt,
And I cry, my face soaked with salt,
Spilling over until I’m floating like a bathing beauty,
Johnny Weissmuller all naked or with a simple loincloth,
Waving with a wrinkled palm – upwards,
“Hello” and “good-bye”.
Grief has a direction and it is inwards,
Washing my heart, an astringent scrubbing,
The gritty purification of tears.