When grief strikes in the house,
open the sea Ariel protects,
stitch glowworms in book spines,
give an ear to Thelonius, a sparrow
in your lap. Among the city’s
mannequins, someone touches your coat,
and a leaf falls on a park bench,
ending autumn early. In your house
with the horse’s exposed anatomy,
a chestnut-flamed glass on the table,
the East River is here, lending her
veil to your ship in the fog.
What the twilight does not say
you have said with surgical ease:
the spangled scars we wear
are scratches on the landing.