(Past-Due)

February always finds you folding
Local papers open to the faces
”Passed away” to wonder what they're holding
In those hands ​we're never shown, the places

Formal photographs refuse to mention
His tiny feet, that birthmark on her knee
The tyranny of framing our attention
With all the eyes their eyes no longer see

And darkness comes too early, you won’t find
The many things you owe these latest dead
A borrowed book, that cheque you didn't sign
The tools to be bereaved with, be beloved

Give what you can: to keep, to comfort this
Plain fear you can't extinguish or dismiss