After the Funeral
When they close the casket I think I shall turn, and comfortably Nestle against the birch I picked, And, put to rest at last, I shall sleep.
They’ ll flock like claps of eager Audience members, to greet me. The birch soon dismantled( Despite that lovely varnish, pity). When memory darns the present I know the rapture of the chittering call; I heard it once and forgot it, not at all:
‘ A new soul enters the breach, And once more, dear friends, We are the sole conquerors. We bare the teeth of dirt and nail-ends. And we when we decompose, We do not leave any seething rest We are not selective, no We do not refrain from eating happiness; We are the worming riders Of the soily night. We consider not where you came From, nor where we take you to-night.’
I cannot fathom the overland. They have stripped my eyelids and Lain them( Delicately) Upon my hands.
‘ To touch Is to feel …’ Whisper they And with their Departure I strip away The four others As sensory martyrs.
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