will mark all other Wednesdays.
That prosaic middle day
between our past
and all the days to come.
The exigency of the living carried on
while we were enveloped in
the sudden beauty and stink of the lilies,
in baskets and baskets of sorrow.
Now we speak to him in the day,
at night, in his room of earthly things.
We speak softly to each other
until we lose our words,
until there is nothing left
unfinished between us.
We wonder about his unexpected journey
to a place we do not understand.