Cento

I

I am afraid that love annihilates the world.

II

It is obvious the stairs continue, but
whether they are chipped and broken,
whether it is dark or light at the top,
whether I will like the place they lead
is completely obscured.

III

We sobbed, bent double, chanting impossible;
the rain; the moktak; that roar, the smell
of burning pine so fresh but edged with kerosene;
the heat of that enormous fire; the smoke, the gray sky.
Our teacher was returning to the sky.

IV

Luck in those final moments, I felt it
the strange sensation of hope
passing through on its way
to somewhere else.

V

The only safe way to dream of the dead
is to dream the dream in common.