The Promise of a Word

into a word. They said
I might not be happy

with the choice, for it sticks:
there is no going back.

As I write this, I still do not know
its name, but I need to write-

after all, we forget invitations
and go places we are not welcome:

dead fingers, held in place
with the same wires hidden inside

to make a fake tree look real
but cold: there is no disguise

for death, and frigid fingers hold
nothing–no secrets, nothing–

and this is the easy part:
the dead know where the rain

is born, they know the last
word breathes life into the first–

but all I have is the promise
of a word that is still not here

and may never arrive
in time–in fact, I hope it stays

right there in hell.