CJ Evans
As the dead fish gather
in their last congregation
at the quay, as the dry
hives shiver
the leafless trees,
as the ghosts rustle,
voiceless, in the potter’s
field, the sound grows.
There’s so much noise
in all this crass business,
in the creaking weight
of the dark tools,
I can no longer hear
the worthwhile elegies,
the ones spoken
by those who rise
and risk another
deafening day to whisper
their lost one’s name,
if only for them to hear.