The weeds have been snapped at the roots, yet their leaves

and long stems are still green; untwining them relieves

the choked plants, but the refuse discarded still beams

with the life that has already ended.

 

A century ago first heard the music that now plays,

thundering with ferocity that the CD translates,

performed by the state band of a bygone state.

 

Atop the hill, children play in the oak’s generous shade

that abides, although the termites have settled. No display

indicates that

they’ve nested,

and invested,

while the hilltop waited for its prey, stone-faced, laid back,

to be nourished by the rot that shall fall when it cracks.   

 

Dust and tumbleweeds roll into houses;

as them, through them, past them, out the door;

the house remains, but the marriage is no more;

the house: surrogate for loving spouses.

 

Decoying glints of speechly baubles:

The well-wishers’ echoes enrich,

lingering about the foyer

in which the corpse remains;

these residual stains

can no longer ploy her,

but join the mementos and kitsch

(along with her and all her troubles).

 

The breath dances thick in winter,

and is gone before one inhales;

all ex-caelo moves to in-terr;

every meal-gift moves through entrails

(all is exit, without return).

 

Hungry shimmers fled from stars long dead

fall to the earth, demanding to be fed;

eyeless, we do need them, and by them we build each dream,

life spools out from our veins for them, until the final gleam.