is this fragility beyond flesh,
where silence is the flame
dancing in the fireplace, warming his face;
where mourning dictates the pace,
the movement of things,
the stillness of stunned clocks,
and cracks on the wall creeping.
There is no room
for misstep that can see him
tumbling down the staircase
of reminiscence, hitting his head
against the floor whose planks are memories,
thud making relevant moments
collapse, creating a gaping hole
where there is no room
—no room at all—
for his chest
and its rise
and fall.
