FAR

Decades ago, I met the crying man approaching on a pavement steep uphill, far from wherever all the grief began,

so fast there was no chance for me to plan another route than where I walked until, decades ago, I met the crying man when sycamore leaves, crumpled fan on fan, ran quick as water through a rumbling mill far from wherever all the grief began on speckled stone his wet eyes tried to scan past blocking tears he couldn’t stop or still: decades ago, I met the crying man and see him now, as he does all he can to keep the sobs from flooding him, to kill far from wherever all the grief began this man crying; I think I almost ran to escape his angry tears, their seep and spill. Decades ago, I met the crying man, far from wherever all the grief began.

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