Sexton
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
….
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.



