cast death to who hears it most reverberating.
he hears it at noon, at sundown, at the
raising light of moon, half-mast set
glaringly through a pond of the word.
he hears it goad through the synagogue,
the pew, the assault of avian,
in the most chilling cold, in the ferocious
water of heat sinking ships to
their metallic deaths.
he heeds it now, fencing thick air
attended by the densest shadow,
he moves with it, its compelling invitation
from darkness to darkness, the faith
of contrition fizzles into the splintered hour, moves with it, moved by it;
he writes, tottering animal of furious wording; the hill there yonder draped
by heavy cloud, rinsed by rain salting
its *******—
cast death to who feels it most sensuously.
he opens his eyes and darkness is infinite.
he opens the window and no light
lifts, awakens.
these juxtaposition of roads, the feasting
of the lamppost, feeding the wick with
infinitesimal flame, quickening the twinight, the courtyard, the amble of strange populace.
he words the earthenware, the figment of deepest abstract, says her name,
Martina, he has her gone in
the ashen hour, the wind that once blew
spruced stillicide on the roof of this home has dithered away in the inexorable.
he squints to inconsolable brightness
Martina sheds trembling in her
eyes ready for ever now,
and then writes as time trickles from
the ephemeral gush of spigot,
slivering the horizon by the unending stream of the familiar dawn, repeats its hymn, beheading the garden.
he will not name the end of all,
he will not count the hours dead
wearing the hand like a glove,
a word from stiff dark to flagrant one:
cast death upon him who knows not.
