that glamour was false (oh how we see it now)

12/9/05

cast your flower like a stone of lead
into the hole where I lie, let it athunder atop my casket
yet I’ll not hear; for a simple deaf patron I was
of the purveyor of desperation borne
in the sweet juice of sharp grass
hewn in the warmer latitudes – alas!
in their own persuasion
just as cold as the northern wastes they are
that deliver such a cold breeze as this
to whisk us away
after it’s all set aside
to play
in our shadows
as we sleep