Date: 2016–10–02

Perhaps not haunted, maybe
more like an echo, bounced off cold
cavernous walls of chasms

if it were haunting, wouldn’t it
want like a vacuum cleaner, or a koel
weaving own words unworkable

insanity can surely sound like this
but who could say, or be able
to say without counting unity

maybe pain is haunting too,
burdensome bruises pulled bare
binding us from both sides of sadness

maybe words are all to say, to
make it end, or make it sense
haunted words but meted by

And maybe it’s my heart all along
fist organ pounded through fistula
pounded the sole surface purple

reiterates pain, roundly sounding
silence when you leave, in
faces empty spaces meeting

never asking to leave, never
ask to hear goodbye, never
asking, everlasting leaving.

The day after Mary and I scattered Gary’s ashes on the Harbour at Mrs Macquarie’s Point.

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