|
February always finds you folding |
|
Local papers open to the faces |
|
Passed away to wonder what they're holding |
|
In those hands we're never shown the places |
|
Formal photographs refuse to mention |
|
His tiny feet, that birthmark on her knee |
|
The tyranny of framing our attention |
|
With all the eyes their eyes no longer see |
|
And darkness comes too early you won't find |
|
The many things you owe these latest dead |
|
A borrowed book, that check you didn't sign |
|
The tools to be believed with be beloved |
|
Give what you can to keep to comfort this |
|
Plain fear you can't extinguish or dismiss |
