Elegy
I look forward to haunting you,
refusing obedient rest
beneath a cold marble silhouette – the silent muse
of childhood picnics
and walking home
drowsy
from the cemetery on the hill.
Now I lay me down
atop sun-warmed concrete monuments,
their faces wrinkled by the stonecutter’s hand-
names and dates
tethering the sleeper,
forcing him to stay
respectably cold & dead
until rapture.
I will tickle you,
weaving the circle of songs,
mocking the finite
with language’s long memory.
There is more living
than can be wedged
into the lead-lined vault of
an average life
span.
(Copyrighted)
Tags: