Cutting the fingertips from old gloves
to feel the cold work I’ve begun,
though my fingers will soon go numb to it.
A death is not a simple tool,
though I’ve tried to take it up and force its use
past my understanding’s breaking point.
A certainty about any loved one gone from this world
will thin with repeated use,
becoming all the more precious, like fine porcelain.
Listening after the dead, like placing my forefinger in a rabbit print in snow
and watching the print grow deeper
to receive it.
