Friday, November 11, 2011

457. armistice

No blinding light of tropical day
nor secrecy of northern night
can further mask our desolation:

an idea is not responsible
for the lives of those who hold it.

Flotsam, jetsam,
such ribald anarchic terms.

Death was kind to you:
a scant scattering of mourners,
myself among them.

The garbled service
was dismal. Predictably so.
I could hear your dry chuckle.

I shall attend your funeral, old boy,
or else you shall attend mine.
I remember you saying that.

People live
as long as other people live
who still remember.