That's sort of
What I've been stuck on:
The way you wonder
A whole preceding life
A body
Into pieces,
With an opposite
Electricity that feels like it
Fits, ending on
What we look like
In a brain,
The other half thinking
That someone ought to be here
Clean and together,
That someone should have told us
We are the same,
Popping up,
Ajar, obviously,
Up to the light.
It feels perfectly personal
In terms of my hand
Through the memory of that story:
That I think one day I'll meet you,
That I'm curious
Also about
Naked feet, that I hate
To talk so much
But I don't know how
To not read this,
That the dead
Fit well in this
Compost
I am holding,
As the noon
Strengthens, as the night
Lays down
Many minutes
Before the end.
We just kind of dance
Right around it,
Right around the message
That has always been
The negative: the carcass
That fills the earth
With use
And beauty.
What was it?
How we married that with
A little boat,
A great swell of
The sweet lesson of
Death before death.
I didn't mean
To be weird
In dreaming the body back
Into mud,
But that's always been the song,
That if we die we die
In retrospect,
Facing death
And a gorgeous show of grass
From lightest to
Richest red.
And is this not also birth
To make order
Of the numerous dead?
Are we not also athletic
When we sleep?
