To define a nameless haunting: what
would you call the feeling of loss, on finding
out only now, a grandpa’s span later, about
‘a skeleton of my granny’?

To learn a thing that, as a child of the 
seventies, passed by: how people wanted 
rock and roll so much, that lacking vinyl 
platters, they recorded on used x-ray film

the pelvis spins, fear of pain by day
a short story over-written, that the night
might shout what they’re talking about
out there. Did Viktor Tsoi’s horses ride

on such bones? Faster, they surged, not
so fast, he pleaded; gently, for this is
my life, yes, but someone else’s hurt
and inevitable delicacies - for instance

Vysotsky’s ear had to discern, in his time
the connective tissue between Marie 
Curie leaving Warsaw, and the evidence
of breakages left to be used for music.

In this final week of the Stroll of Poets’ 30/30 challenge, I expect to post one or two more (though not every day’s writing,f or various reasons). Today’s prompt, ‘when day and night is a short story,’ comes along with the invitation to address ‘the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.’