POETRY
the dead.
sonnet.
Published in
Apr 19, 2023
we are the dead; we cannot help but speak,
(unhearing though you living tend to be);
as vapor-whorls that rise from cooling tea
aren’t seen without contrasting light, our weak,
exhorting susurrations seem unique
when most unsought — so summon apathy,
dispassionate alertness, patiently
aware of, yet unmoved by, what you seek.
our secret, pressed like metal on our eyes,
constricts us all in cerements of woe
(lamentably, we learn it after death) -
anticipation never satisfies,
nor memories of moments, once they go;
there’s only now — this ever-present breath.
