Wednesday, July 01, 2015


Proleptic grief: I suppose 
I had better get used to it.
So often death 
comes heralded now,
bracketed like 
a First World War
artillery barrage:
one specialist says a year
(too long) and another
a couple months
(too short) and the death
moves slowly into focus,
churning up the soil
before and after.

You may invite 
your trenchmates
to observe the remaining beauties of nature
how the blasted tree spines stand
like black runes
in the white morning;
how the rich regal purple,
blue, and green of the fly's body,
that magnificent iridescence,
is the next glory we will have:
but don't expect 
enthusiastic reply.

Better the long slow scrimshaw
better the memorized letter from home
a snatch of sleep in the rocking earth.

1 comment:

Greg Bell said...