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.