I count resentments towards you on one finger

and point it at myself, my wondering pain;

if the wound of losing you must linger,

why must the ache of loving you remain?

Resentments towards the others and their ghosts

are many. Form a line with all the rest,

and I with each will play consoling hosts;

each grief—theirs and my own—a silent guest.

The clock will call an end to courteous dances,

and each well-meaning host will wander home.

The marching force that took you yet advances

and leaves me—with each silent guest—alone.

They pile at my ankles, building mountains.

Sunk to the waist, my shoulders to the sky,

they overflow from lonely sorrow-fountains

to slowly bury me before I die.