Death is real, someone's there and then they're not
And it's not for singing about; it's not for making into art
When real death enters the house, all poetry is dumb
When I walk into the room where you were
And look into the emptiness instead

All fails
My knees fail
My brain fails
Words fail

Crusted with tears, catatonic and raw
I go downstairs and outside and you're still getting mail
A week after you died, a package
with your name on it came
And inside was a gift for our daughter
you had ordered in secret, and collapsed there
on the front steps I wailed

A backpack for when she goes to school
a couple years from now
You were thinking ahead to a future
you must have known deep down
would not include you
though you clawed at the cliff you were sliding down
being swallowed into a silence that is bottomless and real

It's dumb, and I don't want to learn anything from this
I love you