Decomposure
one evening
dangerous in memory
I died
my hands
understand me
or some melancholy any thing
Poems on the topic: death
Poems on the topic “death” on Poets.by.
Memento mori
dinner on the boil
it is a miracle to me how
like a changeling
beyond all imitation of a face
I am old today
The Hanged Man
who takes an hour to make
despair an enemy
and their doubtful body trust
in another
if he should suddenly die
there is nothing but what
is undercover now
is life therefore a letter from myself
which to answer I will
be accountable for
among other things I wish
on the cards
Good grief
mourning comes
with all the small doors
that nobody might pass
a sad house am I
death should erupt
not return us to nothing
is this the best way
not knowing
Making room
holiday eating
in the midst of the dead
a finger down his throat
brought him to life again
Adversarial
who died this morning
who broke
who was unready
I walked up and down
above and below
the questions answered me
how lewdly they talk
and how poor a pit
is the belly
Disenchanted
touching wood
I believe and do not believe
the day I met a bear
the doors were open
and the road was gone
I believe but cannot believe
that I will die
to pass time I read history
so much is ours without us
Gothic
rain and I live together
in one lone body
tell me how sober men cry
or go out in black
coat like a hole
hands in wild motion
it is the fashion to fast
and play at death
and I am too thin to think
of a burden like tomorrow
Connoisseur
my cassock is doubt
I profess no light
or nature or other
false way out
death is the one
king of the faithful
but I serve you
my little books
my instruments and other
fine things
The Fire Fox
The gray fox was sitting in the driveway
when we got up. A blessing, we thought,
returning its gaze from the veranda.
To have found a place in the cool regard
of a creature so at home in the forest
& so seldom seen by day — it felt
like a message: that we belong here
on the mountain, that our presence
is acceptable. We were already
rehearsing the story we’d tell about it
as it got to its feet, that lovely animal
the color of ash & flame, & trotted
up past the garage & out of sight.
We’re still basking in the warm glow
of chosenness when later that day
we see it again, wandering in circles
Sugar Baby
She was clothed in a shift of worms and whispers.
I circled once & crept away, four-footed —
no hands for anything but the road.
That was one dream. And the night before,
a minor lord of the underworld saying,
Of course we take them down with us.
How else do you suppose they taste
eternal youth? Grinning like one of those
candied skulls from the Day of the Dead.
Such melodramatic dreams, I said,
& wrote one yellow word upon the snow.
Decoy
Is the angler fish ever tempted
by its own bait? Does it ever stir
from whatever trance-like state
passes for sleep in the aphotic zone,
see the glowing decoy & think,
Ah — mine! & surge forward,
jaws agape, like the proverbial donkey
tempted by a carrot? Or does it get
snappish at its traveling companion,
persistent as a bad conscience,
haunting as the image of its own death?
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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