| Grief You ask if I am sad. Yes, inconsolable. My mind is on the image of a dog’s ashes scattered on the hem of the cold weeping sea. I picture my brother drinking tea in a morning of San Francisco in which no one must be taken out to walk, and I say the sea always weeps with good reason. We claim to know the way things work, heaven and earth, life and death. All we know is the path through the iceplant and the trees, between the rocks and the sour kelp; the fog dampened sand, and goodbye. Kyle Kimberlin © 2000, 2002 |
 |