Do these small stupid griefs
In relation to those who’ve lost relations
Count anymore?
My litany of the blues
Baby, periwinkle, teal, Robins egg, sky
Even indigo
Haven’t the weight of, depth of
Cobalt, slate, cerulean, flint, smoke, navy.
Lead.
My alchemy chest, empty
The weight of fog, heavy breath
Less expansive, slow filling
A pound of fathers, lighter then
a pound of dead birds,
becomes hard to hold, still
as the volume grows.