Admit

Admit: life is littered with miracles,
pregnant, bursting, fecund with the decay
of every squirming offshoot, lyrical
as chaos unfolding, forcing its way.

Acknowledge: all miracles are neutral
in effect. That you don't see is a trick
of perspective; the universe, frugal 
and cold, has no intent and does not pick.

Apprehend: what consumes you is never
a consideration. Your fall has no
impact; your weightless want is no lever
to move the miraculous world. And so,

Submit. The world, physical, is just there:
does not watch, does not wish, and does not care.

In matters

In matters of spirit we are matter
Still, physically manifest, blood-flesh-bone
Aching breathless from no one cause alone:
The blow-to-pride, flinch-from-fear matter

As much as any blade or blunt object.
So we feel loss as an amputation,

Limping after, unsteady and undone,

Bent and shuddering as if to reflect

The steady bruising thud of every day;

The weight of hours, of gray sky, glaring sun;

The regular confirmation of one

More blow or slash on its uncaring way. 

Your heart? It's not broken, but crushed beneath

The heel of the world: the physics of grief.

-- Infernum hoc iterum