Sunday, January 10, 2016

At the top

At the top of his headstone

I write, thank you.

Songs of gratitude were the soundtrack

of his life.

Whatever sorrow came to call

could not very change him:

He looked into that murky eye

and chuckled,

Thank you:

Thank you for the high notes,

they made the low notes bright.

At the top of my mind now


When he closed his eyes

that last time and rested his cheek

of white quills on his shoulder bone,

a near smile stuck on his mouth,

as if this were an ordinary

night, an ordinary sleep,

just another dream

with breakfast waiting.

At the top of his merits,

I witnessed kindness, I heard praise

given freely.

Among his last words,

Hey, I like your hair.

A glimpse

I knew it, as we all know it: mean death leans 
against the railings;
in every moment malice mills about;
we don't own these bodies, they are the pod's.
He didn't know, nor did I, which of us 
would go first. 
I guessed, discretely, when I dared to, 
it would be him. 
There were reasons, none gasp-inducing, just that 
he ate more meat, did not exert enough perhaps;
and his men seem to buckle, nor did he believe
all this would clutch him from our stream of life 
but when I glimpsed that steep path down,  
I felt soaked in ice.
Lasting only seconds but when I got a glimpse,
I saw my own headstone, too. 
I saw the end of him and me as the end 
of all the world. 
He was so real, so finished, 
so whole and endless, like the Sierra Nevada, 
like a continent, 
 and if I was wrong about him, 
I was wrong about everything.