MEMENTO MORI
The
snowflake martyred to the thaw
is
crucified from crystal filigree
to
glacé lace in metamorphosis
to
inconsequential wet, writhing,
dissolving
in its tears, a pearl earring
in
Cleopatra’s wine, becoming
sublime
by the trillion unnoticed.
The
heart beats on, like a watch’s
inner
monologue, a cricket chirping passionately
with
no one around to hear, a windscreen
wiper,
back and forth all night
edited
from awareness, unconsidered,
no
thought spared for how many pulses
remain
in the peony-knot of bloody rags.
In
a coppice of pine trees beneath the gothic
of
pointed arches and carved wooden roses,
the
fragrant browning blue-green shag pile underfoot,
I
picked up a green needle still pitch-sticky
and
fancied threading it to do some darning.
Darning
what? Who knows? Perhaps like Peter
Pan
reattaching a fugitive shadow.
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