shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Jennifer Gravley


I Think of You

One loss swallows another, growing its jaws
to embody death and death and death.
Loss limbers, loosens its wispy arms, legs.
Loss is a mass noun, uncountable even
when I count you and you. Loss is a skin
over skin, over eyes, over the pads of fingers
and toes which never warm. It is the worst
kind of blanket. It cannot untangle, unknot.
There are no corners. It is sewn by hand.