It starts as light changing
into darkening stillness:
no tweets, no calls, nothing rustles.
In the pause of the second hand
the sky splits into fractions,
into the silence edging disaster.
It tears it all down, what was and wasn’t
wanted, needed, loved, deserted,
twisting to touch what had been once imagined
then built then lived in a home a prison a coffin.
Unhinged furies wrest it all away
while sirens sort confusion.
Click your ruby heels,
go to the place that’s no longer there.
In the absence is everything:
where every wonder and grace exists
waiting to be known,
like dandelion seeds adrift on breath.


Somewhere there is a balm.  In Gilead
they wipe milk and honey from their mouths.
It stains their sleeves and starts to stink.