The elevated
words of sorrow
the priest says
in the church
seem to comfort
some whose losses
are private
and probably immeasurable.
If you pour a beer
into the evening surf,
nobody smells
the alcohol
half a minute later
even if they’re trying,
even if they get so close
it stops
being anybody’s business
but your own.
If you spill
a box of ashes
into the tide,
no matter how much
they represent a person
you loved,
it disappears.
There’s no abandonment
of anything that matters
although
you wish there were.
