Fragment
Shall we be buried beneath the red earth, dear,
In the long, moist shadows of the evening
In the clear so blue, amidst gleaming marbles
(Terribly expensive, but requisite for burials) ?
Under the hollow hill
Mausoleum, cenotaph, family plots, all that,
Beside the pebbled paths
In the afternoon, so vast and overcast,
We the few, the many mourning?
Shall it cover us, too, as it has so many and so few?
Shall the birds not bellow their dismay
As immigrant fingers close the space above with clay?
Bust a clod, prior to seeing God?
As the pine trees wiggle-waggle?
As the cypresses bid adieux?
All so very, very Van Gogh?
Shall the magpies make the firs look finer
Preening their greens in the grottos of the boughs
Their pale and purple plumage like a poker hand outspread?
Shall we not ensue? Trail the hearse, the mourners few?
poem by Morgan Michaels
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