The Pattern

1.

She died.


One moment she

was there, the

next moment, second,

minute she was not.

2.

Her death caused

embraced, excessive

sadness.  "Sadness"

say you?  My outgoing

without her is unbearable.

I want to die.

3.

The above is just gathering

strength for the journey, the

plastic freeway without cars,

trucks:  not even a bus to be

taken, somewhere, anywhere.

4.

The grief will be grieved:

always to return at the least

expected moment.  I want to

stop, alter, even more than

time has.

5.

I can not continue, go on

without her.  I could say

a trillion wordy words about

her.  I won't.  I'll keep them

inside.  They are mine, the

only existence remaining.

6.

There is a grotesquerie to

this grief.  I am no longer

rational, no longer me.

7.

People say that a pattern

will help, an order of some

kind.  What the fuck are they

talking about, referring to?

Grief is a pattern-destructive.

8.

But I have to find one, believe

in a pattern.  I must pretent.

Maybe these words a pattern makes?

This is my only salvation.

9.  She died.