print previewback CAITLIN WILSON
The Offices of Grief
The phone is ringing and has been since the start.
Not the first, nor the last.
No one answers: the room is filled
with books and unsightly knickknacks.
In the hall, a woman runs a vacuum
over the same square of carpet,
paid too little to go any further.
No ghosts are invited
here; there is disquiet
in the young people
whose blurred heads glide by
the window in their passing.
Distant rapids churn and froth
like baby’s breath,
hardiest in the bouquet.
Listen: there it goes. 
Morphology
The Offices of Grief