When I am quiet,
but the soundness hums;
when the pen is still
and the page is empty, but
the inquest is done—
let it be
because there is nothing
I am seeking—no holes,
bored deep by sharpened forceps
of grief, which must be
cemented-over; no fuss
to cover the few bare scars.
No one who needs to see
will come. No one will know
how contented I was.
