It is easier to see
everything as grief,
as things soon broken
or sold with a warranty
limited by technology’s
invisible frontier, almost
always within reach
Like pencils with carbon
cores compromised
out of the box,
each act of sharpening
a futile wish to define
the point of being here
while somewhere, someone
is sending an email
with your name on it
as a portent of trouble
with missing attachments
couched in corporate joy
To grieve is to be shrouded
and yet remain exposed,
bereft in a back alley,
waiting to be picked up
or recycled, like some
brutal reincarnation
We who crave meaning,
who chide the sun and long
to live forever, should embrace
the dark side of the moon
instead, from where
shuttles never return
