Lighter than ashes, darker
than the collars of men
in pressed suits. Locked doors.

Not quite newspapers. Ink
bleeding on low-grade
speculation, shined shoes
scuffing tile. Lawyers argue.

A shadowy haze.
The moon peeking through,
enveloped in fog. A storm
disguised in calm.

It does not rise again.
The body weighed the same
before and after. Even the clouds
linger, incapable of crying.