Plummeting
This hour is sour I'm right in assuming all words mean burdens You in your jagged softness Me scrabbling to map your path over pantheons of dead toppled tree gods Among sons daughters fathers mothers families which are not Kill for a cure for delirium for comfort which does not eat away the stomach lining or fossilize the heart Bursting so no I can't find it in me to sing your praises There is nothing so much nothing the poems should stay blank pages The sound all around you won't hear anywhere is ancestral pebbles dropped Plummeting Plummeting Plummeting Impacting nothing at all