The Editor’s Five Stages of Mourning

I read it,
‘a burger
deeper than

lan­guage or
affec­tion.’
Words are laid

hair by hair,
like sewn fur.
No one lifts

the goat’s coat
to see the
handiwork,

and even
there there is
a lining.

Why can’t the
won­ders be
sep’rated?

No one wants
to split the
lark, so we

round the words
up, bury
our necks in

fur, never
know­ing what
we misread

was hunger.