to: Wislawa Szymborska


I lost a stare
that pierces the surface vista
made of pleasant flighty clouds
a wayward bird or two,
some trees. A nice enough weather.
No one to see what I hid
beyond the frames of the sill:
There is a leaf about to land,
there, a critter comes out
from a burrow,
looking at what its wordless eyes encompass
bereft of interpretation,
There, a dying ant—a death
the same day as yours
only shyer, uncelebrated.
Because of your death,
this smaller death seems more final.

01/10/2013

Posted on 01/10/2013
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