!

Ah, these words come far too cheap at times.
Sky and sea, cloud and star, wolf and bird,
and the only way to talk is not of our time.

Er, that is, to talk of only life that defeats
the notion of our death, elevate to myth,
writing poems that were heavenly writ.

The treachery of each dawn, its night.
A math starts anew each day, ends.
Poor Pan gone coughing up old gin

vapors, cigarette smoke, memory.
Cleopatra returns, horrified at all
we’ve done. Yeats merely says,
“The lines appear shorter.”

Our ancestors live, talk,
as we murmur about.
Death is the dodge.

Forever, is
a moment
we know

when it
takes.
!