Not for lack of sorrow

The clock's hourly bird buried in the bed linen. Am I the only one here not weeping my eyes out? I am. And I am the only one here. Remember the rock we sat on together, knees bent in the same sun. A heron cut the creek-shine like scissors renting a backdrop. What did we expect would be revealed? More bloody dogwood, less toweled love? It's seven days since we last spoke. In human terms, called a week. Which means our distance has become measurable. And yet, a few strides down the front walk, I find myself in the middle of the ocean. That sudden, overwhelming sense you're not going to make it. The noiselessness of grass all froth. As I never predicted—every mechanized bird cry'd go through me—until I stopped hearing what's real.