There will be no more of time and
For the ash is in the box. The love of her life.
She notices how quiet he is in there.
Out here, she says, I talk
But always to a mirror
Where a face looks out like a clock that says
Is coming and then it comes like a coat
of silted black.
Thank you, she says, as she slips into bed.
~ from “Elegy,” by Mary Jo Bang