From the poet’s dictionary

noun \ˈpis-tən\
a sound like a fist, like rain,
like fat drops on hardpan,
like a screen door flapping,
like gasoiline on skin,
like burning sand,
like the smell of coal ash
at ten below zero,
like a stain in the heart
that cannot be removed,
like every slamming, crushing,
fierce and mortal thing
that cannot be undone,
except by love.

See also grief.

How swiftly came the killing season

How swiftly came the killing season
swept in from hinterlands
just when we had remarked upon
the sameness of it all.

How soon the must-not-be-named
became quotidian.
Weren’t we standing there,
thinking how sensible

not to raise a ruckus,
how preferable to simply
turn our backs to the foul wind?

How did we come to this?
Didn’t we say how better we were?
What comfort are platitudes