New Loss

Out of new loss,
old givens spurt,
coldly aromatic.
And we, we are boldly automatic
in our grieving procedure.
The pageantry of wringing hands,
the silver film across the eyes,
obscures what could have been
a starburst of clarity.
Thus we scrounge for charity
among the roving concrete clamor,
even as that selfsame clamor
deprives us of desire,
focus, and effulgence.

-r. miller