Sea salt makes dry;
the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh
away.

Men fell like birds, stringing wires as thick and as
heavy as necks; lights strong and eager as hands.

Like birds they fell, from heights where your words hang now,
like tiny, dumb things; where your sighs shift, and the static muffles the sun.
Their bones tiny and blinked into dust, with the
diggers and divers,
the men who couldn't make the turn.
Bodies and bodies for millions of miles
so that what once was given,
may be taken, without ever having
to trust in memory, in brevity,
in the quick and silent easing of the tension hanging in angry
cross-Atlantic swirls.

The way you want it.
The way God would have wanted it.
The way husbands and fathers died wanting it.

Lonely and heavy and white with sound.