As has befallen hitherto, here now, is come anew,
Come moreover as an omen, rising,
Of relics kept and shadows spoken,
Come more as a keepsake, cogent, of humus rent,
By tides unbroken; fatigued by time, by tidings washed,
And the agonies once bestrewn, are now all neatly swept,
The manor house cleansed, the hidden closet derelict.
Of feelings still bleeding, still ignored, still unspoken,
Vacated by mourners, by crowds, by the widower and the plough,
By the elegiac eye and the old lady attending near the gate;
Scorned, yes, but scorned by few in the House of Fate, where
We place a ribbon, irreverent, and tie tight a bow,
For as has befallen hitherto, unto the Jeremiah jowl anew,
We wander, here and now, in agony, toward the preserver of the slate.
From pyre to pyre, and fire, from flame to ashes,
Upon the ancient brig, our tide of loss emerges,
From beneath a dying sun, a body in an upturned urn,
Memory exhumed, holds nothing of what was, then.
From the incunabula of desire, thence expanding, epic,
To prose now frosted, clipped – of fictions pasted, if not frozen,
Unmoving, undemanding trinkets – unsurpassed by deeper motion.
What through dawn’s nascent cloth does sleep,
Shall, by lantern lime, be dragooned out via the Charing Cross road,
Stitched with sighs, and on many an evening pale, in ale we
Shall weep, beside the flame, dowsed again in darkness.
From the cooling furnace of our human purpose,
Emerges a pattern, a gaze, now burnt superfluous,
– of yet, of if, of ever what fiction did you elect?
Look: the stone’s insistence is of death, relentless.
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