for Roger and…
He entered these doors a deep sea diver.
This day, with the helmet of his bell suit
fogged with tears, he told of deciphering,
of streams of struggle, the letting of blood,
the patience of grief, know-not-I-what-else.
That time is fallen? Floored is memory?
Ignorance is mercy? At this threshold
the pressure of love is in its semblance
to the unspoken. Tremulous again,
the risk of breathing an air too viscous
curdles his words, their favours sad sodden.