ALT Grief First, it will comnfort you to know there are crows, And calipers for measuring the amount of sunshine that can escape from under the shadows of thought. Far out at sea ships go down in a crippled light, and bunches of black iris are sent to the remaining crew. You, too, shall have lived and died a jot, with the queer feeling you were vast and ageless, with a good education in sleep, prepared to die with one regret, that you could not devote more years in vain. And no one could do nothing but let it happen. Whatever was tied to the mast the waves have come here they are: after anxiety turns into pain and pain turns into rain and the rain into a doorbell on the face, the forehead splits open. Crows come for that speck of gold you were saving for your eyelids at the point of death and turn away, wildly happy.