when I'm quiet,
but the sound of the world
still hums—
when my pen lies still
and this page
remains empty,
but the truth
is completed,
and the inquest is done—
let it be because
there is nothing left to seek;
no loose earth
and quick-
drying cement
to plug and cover
the holes, bore-in deep
by the forceps of grief;
no gauze
to wrap over these
implausible scars;
and no one
who needs to see
for themselves to believe
the face I am wearing
that day
will show up there,
for they,
on their own, will have
finally realized
for once, how
contented—how at peace
I truly was.
