Me, I'm called back toward life By news of death. Though not yet buying the rope Or measuring the beams, I've been wistfully contemplating the stool. You breathe, Your duodenal muscles still reflex, Still express each bit in its own time Of your loss, of your loving, Of your sharing, of your losing. (I now cannot join him. It seems selfish to dwell on how I feel.) You have all the wounds, you with the grief, I with weird bruised bones.