Roadkiller
running over a hare
on the way home
tell me I will be her
tomorrow
and the heart cannot help
a thin ink
no design in the griefs
which make us all
Poems on the topic: death
Poems on the topic “death” on Poets.by.
Suspended animation
waiting I am one
with the small sum of a heart
the ash of a warrant
the no one there of water
the sleep of a dead child
On the Birthday of Death
There was a flash, so bright — as if
from the world’s largest camera,
come to capture everyone in
their work clothes.
We children ran to the top field
& turned & looked.
What new kind of cloud was this?
What new kind of tree?
It stood for hours on the horizon,
brewing its own weather, we guessed,
or setting fruit. No one could imagine just
how strong the wind, how terrible the rain.
But we were farmers’ kids.
When we saw white birds
streaming away toward the west,
we knew what to think.
Finite
an infinite room is the grave
for the finest falling body
the overthrown
and irregular body
the no body to know
how to pass
Assignations
we met nightly
in that church red with need
to free our hands of death
building only to go bust
holding on
blessed as a swan in the palace
our last words washed out
with the rain
Time-bound
my hands think without me
a tick will not talk
to his old red comrade
above the world a swan
is as much of the dead
as we know
Future-proofing
passionate as a river
empty of boats
holding a wine glass for rain
and a napkin for ink
I made an end of my letters
and died in her bed
Penn’s Creek riddles
A dark waterfall of fur
slipping down the rocks at
the river’s edge, soft yoke
no neck will ever wear.
Though green, I am no plant.
Two kingdoms live in me, but no ruler.
I’m a colonist of places
where nothing else can survive.
Death comes to the hemlock trees
in grayish white clots the size of pinheads.
Melancholic
I dress myself down
done with all the toss and spoil
hold to loss
like a sand house
taking you home who are
less dead than me
Foretold
my last days
shall be underground
trees covered with earth
branches of black water
in my pocket
sand
and sudden hands
over every mouth
Practice makes perfect
I am at any time
ready for vacation
practicing to be simple
imagine the prizes we desire
in the present
this very body prepared
for his journey
down in the grave
Death angel
the clock over our revels
is an angel on a leash
I give it a while to betray us
and tally all our time
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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