for Doug Knight, 1921-2005, on belatedly hearing of your death and burial

                       Cut out my heart for me
           Who cannot see to aim the scissor.
The one who’d send you love must send it farther,
For where you’re now, stepfather, every letter’s scattered.
So let the hand of night fold down this sheet and trim it, neatly,
           To shape a grounded tear; then spread it flat for cool or fond inscription.
                      The form and color will not matter to a soul, for sweetness is the point.

                      Returned to sender, tattered. Cup a hand around these molded words and put
           Them to an ear, or place a phone call to the soil for more instruction.
I’ll stick this in your book to mark where nothing may be uttered.
Some have left messages that pulse the darkness, nightly,
But half a heart is one that has no future.
           So cut me out and let your mirror
                      Rest in little pieces.