It’s not yet morning and I’m up
the dark only just lined with silver.
The wasted night’s final chill
crawls up my back and down my fingers
while they curl around my pen.
Is it my fingers that are numb
or has the pen turned heavy?
Maybe the paper is too bright
the light is still too pink
the waking insects such a nuisance.
And if it’s not any of these
then it’s the words that lost their meaning.
Conventions, rules, syntax and metaphor
suddenly prove inadequate;
her death too soon to contemplate.
Words just fail me but memories persist.
I look around me: so many things;
voices on tape, and video,
and photographs, sooo many photographs;
shadows describing what once was
and what one now misses.