I do not fear the stillness,
or the quiet interstellar-ness
of clammy hands dripping
flesh…
like some forgotten astronaut
kicking the steel round
of man’s prying
and melting into pinpoints.
It is not the box,
crying cedar or mahogany excess.
the confounding atrocity
of wrapping death in death
to let our final farewell
as an image linger--
if they gain the heart to dig
and hug the putrid scent.
Or the stench,
like well made cheeses,
poignant affirmations of life
to be shared over aged wine
and delicate glasses.
Or the digging shovels
of false solemnity
hoisting brown
to gray to black
as the earth, our center, folds
by G-d or a Spanish maid,
addressing the cluttered bed-sheets
of a neon hotel.
I fear only the moment
where hope meets a flat-line.
where breath goes, and not coming back
is a twilight between beauty in gain…
and the subtle beauty in loss.
-------------------------------Revision In spite of your comment
I Fear Only
I do not fear the silence,
or the quiet interstellar-ness
of clammy frame yielding
flesh…
like some forgotten astronaut
kicking the round steel
of man’s prying,
and fading into pinpoints.
It is not the box,
pine or mahogany excess--
a confounding atrocity.
wrapping death in death,
to let our final farewell
as an image linger--
that they gain the heart to dig
and hug the putrid odor.
Or the odious stench,
of barges on watery graves.
piled refuse rotting
upon the long procession--
to be entombed
on distant shores.
Or the shovels digging
false solemnity
hoisting brown piles
from grey to black upon me.
as the earth, our center, folds
by G-d or a Spanish maid,
addressing the cluttered bed-sheets
of a neon hotel.
I fear only the moment…
where hope meets a flat-line.
where breath goes, and not coming back
is a twilight between beauty in gain…
and the subtle beauty in loss.
