(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