consummation of grief

i even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
i listen to the water
on nights i drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
i hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines . . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
i was born for this
i was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.


-cb