quiet,
but the sound of that quietness
chuckles
and hums;
when this cursor
is still
and the page is still
empty,
but the inquest is over
and the sentencing
is done—
let it be
because
there is nothing
I am seeking—
no salve
or succor
for holes
bored-in deep by cold forceps
of grief
or bruises drained dry
by their long search
for a cause;
none who must see
for themselves
need come—
no one
will know
how perfected
I was.
