There’s your state
to be salvaged,
there’s your wounds
to turn from bereavement
into reflection.
A lake has formed
under your feet,
a spot of your
self-contained
residue.
It drowns your words,
echoes your screams,
diving your face
along a ripple.
It freezes to keep you
locked onto a void,
captures your grace
into endless space.
Who are you
in all this irony?
The scope of it
has you crawling
for the grains,
for the dust,
for the rust
staining your skin.
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