By the time you’ve realized time,
It’s time to die.
Nature releases the body to Death
While the essential you claims it yours, rejecting that disintegration.
Come others, come the same.
Cen-tur-ies of this.
To gut and show candidly
The underbelly of life
Is not a crime.
But we reject the message,
We kill those messengers,
Artists with hands caked in the blood of centuries,
Artists with your life in their eyes.
No more a poet than a moth reeling from darkness,
I dream a simple sunset
On some mountain man is always climbing.
It’s good to see that mountain; it’s better, naturally, to destroy the dream.
The voice of wisdom, no matter the language, no matter the time, speaks the same . . .
Euripides, Molière, Celine, Jeffers—
I closed old books, not a question for wisdom but one for myself:
With all we are, the little nothing I can know,
To ask in the light:
Death, are you all I’ll ever truly know?