It was a Thursday evening
when you descended into the earth
in the house of God,
now too quiet, dark.
I put all the end of my thoughts
in that place
where you fell down in a pool of red,
immense without words,
big as the silence of bullets.
Heavy death is in our useless hands,
our chests are full of stones
down deep in the quiet
where the bones of the loved ones lay,
where arguing ends and seeds
curl up to sleep and dream through all winters
and idiot words and deeds are made silent,
unwinding the choke-cord of ages
at wars’ end.