Practice by Ellen Bryant Voigt

To weep unbidden, to wake 
at night in order to weep, to wait 
for the whisker on the face of the clock 
to twitch again, moving 
the dumb day forward— 

is this merely practice? 
Some believe in heaven, 
some in rest.  We'll float, 
you said. Afterward we'll float
between two worlds— 

five bronze beetles
stacked like spoons in one 
peony blossom, drugged by lust: 
if I came back as a bird 
I'd remember that— 

until everyone 
we love is safe is what you said.

~ from The Art of Losing (Bloomsbury, 2010)