by Samuel Goldsmith
Best stuff wads of cotton isolation
into syncopated caverns
so the sound of honey can’t drip through
and glue together memories.
Such sweet mortar to lick a pyramid
a monument for mourn.
Mummified remains of muses
who once clasped voices
like hands. Those without ears can’t
yearn for songs past.
Instead they hear the lullaby of fear
the sound of standing mud
gradients of gray and the whisper of concrete:
“escape, escape from grief.”