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The only response
to a child’s grave is
to lie down before it and play dead
http://billknott.typepad.com/billknott/2007/05/06/index.html
I included the poem instead of just the link because the link takes you to the whole book, and I wanted to save you confusion. It’s a good book. He’s a really undersung writer. ["Undersung and overhung," he wrote in a note to me.]
magnificent! magnificent!
no one knows the final word
the ocean bed’s aflame
out of the void leap wooden lambs
Hush, lullay.
Your treasures all
Encrust with rust,
Your trinket pleasures fall
To dust.
Beneath the sapphire arch,
Upon the grassy floor,
Is nothing more
To hold,
And play is over-old.
Your eyes
In sleepy fever gleam,
Their lids droop
To their dream.
You wander late alone,
The flesh frets on the bone,
Your love fails in your breast,
Here is the pillow.
Rest.
