I write to be obscure(d).
The depths will catch me like a web,
like your depths, out of reach,
while our fingers like weed in a stream
reach with the current,
flowing north when we should point south.
Even the crispest, clearest of days
will not awaken you.
Autumn sun through autumn leaves
will not reach us all.
What words could reach you?
An embryo settled in silt,
your womb-bed a winter lake,
unconscious as glacial drift.
Your womb-mates are fish.
Stygian things, eyes like stones,
mouths open in soft surprise
at what sank in their realm.
The solitude of death must be beyond compare,
all ruin at an end, all ruin beginning,
a passing through to a nothing time.
And after the drowning, a wake,
a churning you are blind to now,
the fragmented grief of disparate souls.
A mute womb-bound life
all your legacy and trust.