the witness, visored gloom,
curved like a dome, nothing to do,
I should’ve – I should’ve –
in one of those closing moments,
one-sided, and all of your stones
all stacked in a row,
let’s go on for a while.
alright, just not too far,
they keep me awake, I know the day
will be hard every day.
these stones, not yours,
I tell you no more, with contempt
and scorn, not yours,
not yours.
April’s back in bloom.
a grassy grave where I
buried my dog who still wanders
in the fog of the frigid woods,
searching strangers,
sniffing hands in the
twilight lands for my particular
scent which he remembers good.
I have a new dog now,
she treads with dainty paws
over headstones, nineteenth century,
forgotten professions,
forgotten diseases,
with time, tragic deaths seem
to lose their tragedy.
and the strain is Sisyphean,
the colours are April back in bloom,
back in bloom.
and the strain is Sisyphean
as it all becomes abstract,
an antique fable, and the
blossom is nearly cruel.
nearly.
dull rain, it waters such pain now,
just a player on a stage at the
last act, in the last light,
procession of shadows whom death
had undone, death had
undone.
up, line them up, every coward
for reassembly, every able-bodied
husk for the war or the wall,
but always the gun,
always the gun.
and the strain is Sisyphean,
so many of them perennially
kicking scrap, picking bones,
pushing stones.
and the strain is Sisyphean,
the colours are April back in bloom,
back in
