I sit with your ashes:

whether the wind or my memory fades, you are gone.

You are soft, here, a palate 

of grey heresy through the grope of my fingers.

Silo of grief: rosetted, engraved, bequeathed. 

What should I do with you except bring you here

to the wind and the sand and the waves? Here the sun

remembers your skin, here the wind 

remembers the soft blue of your eyes.

I am too tired for art, too angry for splicing our hearts.

The tiny cairn of you is my heart, your voice is my bones. 

I am beyond you, you have been gone for years.