Kin are ever silent in the dark

Long after my entry
Not a word was made
Just the common snap of the mending needle
At times
The red charcoal threw out a fleet and sodden gloss
Which faded on the old man’s lenses
And skittishly hung in the air round our company
Too blear to light the masses

Were we not like fiends?

Was it not a model of the perished
Who acknowledged and desired each other here on earth
Holding exchange forever
Wary of each other’s nearness
Not by sight
Nor sound
Nor touch
But by an occult wakefulness?

Would it not be so among the lost?