The beds are long
the brine is deep
in which I press my thoughts to sleep
of all that I should not have said

or done
or learned
I mourn the head

that held the hymn
if shy if dim
if unobtrusive

Then salt then chest
Then palm then less
The lies that made me dear
then raw then sharp then swift if those
keep you here

The list I wrote

of ways I hoped
this sacrament would end
If unmendable if uncleansable

then the grace of men
then the grace of men