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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