Mid-December and the episode is over.
No light or darkness,
just the colors of soil,
as early winter always shows.
Skies ashen: nothing’s waiting.

If I’ve fallen here, it’s because you haven’t.
If I imagine you as one of Caravaggio’s mourners
it’s only because I want the diggers
to cover me over. This grave is too shallow,
my body floats on the mud.
Behind the man in red—
is that a hand? A feathered wing