Corpsing

A chaos of graves in the rain

Caroline Blackwood might call this,

The snowmelt running streaky tears

Down the muddy shore to the waves,

The aspens standing awkwardly,

Half-dressed teenagers at a wake.

The wind is on stage, flamboyant,

Defiant, aging, but still fierce,

Though the two men angling have left,

Leaving no audience but ducks,

And these words, and the waves the wind

Harangues and creates with its false

Eulogies. God, who wrote this wind

With its cold, dramatic gestures,

For what? We’re all waves here, the wind,

Aspens, ducks, and words included.

Amnesia or stage fright seizes

The scene. The wind falls still as death.