Sunday, November 25, 2007

one poem

as fires in the trees
become flashes of candles,
we race through the falling leaves.

echoes predict conjoined
flames burn twice
as bright, as fast.

for others there are
corpse photographs
of ivory dresses,
there are children,
there is cascading
vicarious immortality,
and flowers for names
carved on tombs.

handprints scattered
in brittle brown skeletons
across the cooling earth.
how quickly they crush.

howling sky,
have us ripe rich
and dripping juices.
suck us dry
before we rot.

leave for them
the cold paper hands
and the quiet sick deaths.

let us die
feasting
at fifty

and let
no one
eulogize,
no one
recall.

let no
women wail
in black veils
for us.

let the
setting
of the
red sun.

let the
coming of
soundless night.

let the
falling of
the leaves.

call them aflame
in autumn
when they've lost
their green.

call what
we do
burning.

if you must
call out
our names,

do it in houses
empty, gutted,
singed, with
broken beams.

then snuff silent
lurching echoes

and drink
tart ciders
and set us
to crackle
and hiss

until there
is nothing
to remind –

no bone relics,
no fillings of gold,
no English names,

no smoke,
no ash,
no scorch

on the
earth.

2 comments:

deixis said...

how the fuck did you do that?

Lisa Reade said...

i'm glad you posted this. "let the falling of soundless night" is awesome.