the dead are like planted begonias;
tubers, vessels, elixirs of closure.
they know Brooklyn as Thomas Wolfe says.


and care as much. while i secretly long
to join them; play that trump, bring in
the pot of a long life lived. zip-it-up.
a mesh-bag of memories; and i'd be off.


each hand i bet it all, C.S. Lewis nods,
murmuring. there's shuffling all around
as an ancient Asian arises and utters Haiku:


be alone tonight.
catapillar bending all time.
moonscape a memory stolen.


i'm not well; i think poetry would calm the beast;
do those in Heaven, slowly canoe through eternity,
and hold their oars up while we go to sleep?
like Billy Collins says, and do they dream?

02/27/2009

Posted on 02/27/2009
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan