When asked of death I see the black poppy,
as a telescope abandoned, wonder how every
form seems skeletal in starlight, night time
structure blossoming in the pull.

the waves heralding angels, every crushing
moment forces us to jolt and so swallow
words without ever learning meanings,
the seafront in dark colours is terrifying.

I’m the only one waiting for the static
wipeout, the stopstart that will send out the
image of the earth as a withered cemetery,
counting crows jumping from white heights.

The graves are already dug and lined, silently
we wait to fall the small distance left, no pieces
of requiem coughed up from the flood will deliver
any comfort, tragic hand-in-hand hurry between us.

The earth reverses, pauses and while hanging its
head will call the moon down and whisper failings
to it, rocking it to sleep, halting fear before the
blazes start up and turn everything to a pale chalk.

My own brief love affair with the world is over
and I’m left imagining the immeasurable quantities
of nothing, even in our dying hour the beauty of
our declining screamed orchestration resounds.

07/11/2011

Posted on 07/11/2011
Copyright © 2024 Angela Stevens