DIRGE

Like a black 

hole in deep 

space, 

only the assumed 

shape of goneness 

can be found

in the heat 

glow of tacit and

bereft regrets, 

unarticulable  

laments, 

and relieved 

not-yets—which 

in our ongoing 

silence, tend 

to spiral,

iridescent, all 

around it.