AS IF THE RUDDY CREASES ARE PROOF


the death on the news 

the death from the breech 

the death of the kind of person 

who looks so robust for having resisted 

dying this long


the death of time 

of reading against a tree


where will she go 

wild heart widow


to which never quite understanding 

arms of which deep friend 

in which beautiful place?


death of the cook who has 

survived this far


death of cleaning up, 

of going home after the shift

to have  a beer on the stoop


death of the death bed 


we might lurch or revolt but isn't it right 

to let dignity live, at least?


call your sisters to wrap up your life 

air tight like the cellophane of 

off limits leftovers


the reporter cries into 

her parka collar

she’s trying to tell us


to pick up the sticks from where 

last night’s storm strew them 


no accident, no rageful error, 


wire went down and lit 

the douglas fir on fire


are your neighbors watching? 

do they care enough to knock your door 

in the night? 


yes, in this little grove,

we put on pants


and watched the firemen spray feebly

once the flame had other

plans


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