And so, I explained his upcoming surgery as merely
fear leaving fear in the same way that water
passes through water. It is true that fear
never really knows its source—echo, running away
Moving through time, as through
distilled underwater shadows,
I told stories, understanding
how words stretched out before me,
crescent minnows becoming invisible
If there were angels in the room, I did not hear them,
only the muffled swish of a broom removing dust.
Is this how one slowly forgot?
Moved backwards through tense, as over
a string of beads?
Turned off the TV?
Dream of snow within dream:
How will my grief become a river?
To whom will I tell this?