I can see this iceberg chamber…
It is fear in the pause
before winter,

or the unknowing
of that sloped feel of riding backwards,
a hay wagon, watching the horizon float up
and fall back.

I am eluding the gray slant
of this tombstone which grasps out
beyond its real shadow,
trying to grab me
past the taut pull of the ceremony.
It is not necessary.

And although I am mute
it is not mourning.

Only a solid emptiness,
the slow drop of stone water
and a shallow thud
like the last beat and breath.