The great equalizer
in the city of the dead
the poor cannot have any bell
ring for them
we fear that public sand
fear being forced to lie there
like a little warren
Poems on the topic: death
Poems on the topic “death” on Poets.by.
Funeral procession
a corpse going to the grave
how everybody looks
going up and down
like a tress or vine
into the ash of hands
so weary so long
Vulnerable
saving time I hand
to my physician
this strange man dying so
this open self
Donation
give me to a body farm
a body to watch day and night
a no-body more other than a dog
better than my own vexed home
Ship burial
within the river
is a sweet green night
and a rank day
and people say
there is also a ship
which was fitted to go to the dead
Bellwether
I could expect to age
or boil over
a compass busy with the north
napping in a riot
having been rescued from the dead
I know no certainty
Street culture
not liking the horse desire
I walk out
not liking death
I eat a piece of pie
who lives in an outhouse
so he would not be seen
thrust his head
into the grave
we drink and talk
and read verses in the street
Hawking
a wing coming from sea
at the death of a master
a great gust calling
our thoughts away
Small time
among the dead I could be
a sorry stranger
but I consider providence
from the bottom of a clock
Axe
It was late. The lamplight gelled around you
like pine sap thickening into amber.
You were forgetting how to read, losing words
in the exact reverse order of how you learned them decades before,
until the book open on your lap seemed
as blankly comforting as a glass of milk.
Death had come, but not for the reasons usually alleged.
He found himself enchanted by your bones,
which were light as piccolos, & your skull’s smile
faintly visible under the skin
like a subliminal advertisement for eternal spring.
The clock stopped in mid-tick.
Your eyes took on a faraway look.
Was I supposed to run after you? I was tired.
My trademark guitar had long since gone electric –
an axe, as they say.
Burial
we bury her
in her fine clothes
rain doting on the ice
Polished
a body in a grave is without
any breach of civility
though its mouth
is all drawn in
like what teemed
at so late a supper
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