Dizzy and cold, the stars are wearing veils of grief
and weeping as if over me.
Under such a sky the only sense I have of myself
is senselessness—the indiscriminate aching
in the spoon of my neck which comes
like noise in the night, quick
and hysterical, the breaking up of things
that should not be so fragile.
― Jill Alexander Essbaum, “Evensong” from Heaven