Grief, in all its woolly and animal ways
Is such a disgusting process.
You have to throw up your own soul. Let it be chewed and then spit back out.
You have to roll it up in a big black ball of tar and throw it in a fire
And then rapidly
Force yourself not to reach your hand into the fire, which never works.
Always we reach in, thinking that there might be
Something else useful for us
If only we could grab it without getting singed.
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