The rhythm of loss is complex:
a turbid, underwater current plays
its dysfunctional tom-toms under the wrap
There is a falling-off, a hush
which smothers these anti-spirals, these whorls,
drowning the orchestra
pillows and pillows and pillows
of goose-greased feathers.
Smiles go stale at the edges,
It makes you want to curl a shout
and skid it across ice
or to batter your forehead
against the space where the door used to be yesterday.
The rhythm of loss
is played on a radio wave which has been
so that entering a tunnel
you can hear only the tinnitus, the static.