on f(x)=|x|sin(x)
1.
Must the true Death come?
I am content with
only falsehood
crusted forever in recycled tears.
I am content with monotone
azure.
I am content to sit
in my waistcoat
and sip dark tea.
2.
Send your fingertips across my face, light
across my eyes and nose and lips
and chin. Brush me away—
The new wind brushes away my hair
and the dampness of my mouth.
Sweet new-autumn wind evaporates
your touch, blows in
varying grey, sweeter still by its
impurities.
Sweetness and semblance mix well
in the thin air, softened by the lightest
brush. It is cold here.
3.
Must I fall forever away against
the abysmal roiling grey?
The hot wind of Death
approaches again,
ostensibly for
the final time.
I am hot and damp.
Only the dancing leaves
have reached me,
ostensibly for the first time:
yet I must fall away forever
toward the damp heat.
4.
A frightened bird-song or my protestations
send tea leaves scattering back
to the branch.
The wind falls slack into blue
horizon. |
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