One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII

Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer

to our number 8—
another day

in the last month
of a depleted year—

I realize even tipped
on its side,

its resemblance
to infinity

is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.

Broken Drought

As quickly as
the rain stops, my heart
aches anew
for the sound
of your voice—
the reassurance
that I truly am
as I truly should
be this moment.