I sweep what is now
only my apartment.

I’ve known about silence for a long time.
    I’ve even missed that quiet now and again—
         Like the lost whispers of a tired echo—

patterned on my psyche your mother dies after your mother dies that's my grandmother my echo of my mother buried does death know I'm about to turn thirty-four does death mirror itself in eerie to draw the curtain tighter or to release it anew 

For things to last, you must be
meticulous. You must not over-season
or sweeten what is already sweet.
Even my grandmother never got it
quite to her liking –