Fur should make a sound, pursing lips should. When a pupil
dilates or a chimney swift dives. The urn, full of what a person
was. Paint, old wool, the mountain. We should. Every reliquary,
every fault, every grave should make a sound. Vines of how
they hold up the ruin. All the people who were here with us
and now aren’t. Dark should. This room. Dirt about
what it knows of what’s now in the urn. Lines as they
break the edges of a mouth. Any last day spent alone.
– from Lives