Yes I’ve known the yes faces of death,
saying it so while wanting to know
what is so gloriously accounted in
making rounds of doorway death, when
it comes so easily coming to all,
considerate to show us each
the face we choose on the birthing
beach, when it comes so quickly,
Being so near, never even as far as the
closest county line or imaginary rind
in the next door neighbor’s property cut?
But here so gauzy clear the familiar
like the sheerest scarf of spun silk
so fabricate thin, tensile tough and certain
of the yes in faces anyone may see that
death variously, patiently proffers.
Such as the shot bird face of sparrow eye surprise
When blasting rift splits swift the chest;
or the taut and drawn face smooth and bony
belonging to the beauty who’s come to spar with,
pummeled by the no;
or the tenderly unsung boy
whose brain tissue still sticky clings,
hanging inside the vinyl top sedan;
too the face of the long grain coming over the
face of the long grain coming over the
senior citizen who forgot the thing called
joy along the way when the thing called
joy along the way was a tingling on the tongue,
silver in the eyes, savory stew on the stove,
leavings in the scraps of the cling-to selfish gene.
And a yes song too of a season song too
when midnight upends wetting the earth is moist,
and that voice sends a cold call over the slender
grass cutting like shears the fall of August.
And I tell it to this face most intimate
faceless but for the hovering hush of wings,
having heard the hollow too many times to
mistake again the eye in the palm of signs;
having gone inside the silent sightless cover
all the way a narrow night through with
bare vein and blade from twilight shimmer to
that thinnest hour and past over the
spill of dawn when my love was gone;
covered there wondering with death’s consent
in Mother Night’s offer of close descent who was
closely compassioned in time of clear decision;
and only then lifting when the fish hawk flew
having who spent the silent night perched in
vantage of high false fir behind cottage home,
think smelling it sensed the carrion odor, only
to discover by dawn’s light how wrong.
So, okay, death’s where we know death’s there.
Meaning it’s layered in the yes parfait
in the compost in the corner,
percolating in the backyard garden.
For this reason why is death supposed
to be a thing hard to win and therefore
courageous for women and men to make?
Why measure a man by death’s hands?
Why the drowsy sweet desire I’ve seen
sneak through the dreamy woman or two?
Nor is it sensible to think the monied estate
will save some or how others think that
others will get theirs when the time comes.
The nitrogenous time of breakdown time
always comes in the thermobody fall.
Why not see how this thing will come,
never to fail when ripeness time comes?
Why not be at better the rainbow live
unhoarding, undying, gone swimming into
the stamenating white white of tidal life?
Aug/1/2020, 8:00 pm
Link to this post
Send Email to Terreson
Send PM to Terreson
Re: Death Faces
I feel like I'm running
out of me.
How does that feel?
Not only exhausted and caught
in random memory
as distant dreams.
Aug/4/2020, 3:32 pm
Link to this post
Send Email to libramoon
Send PM to libramoon