The fancy cannot cheat so well

A grown woman with the mind of a small nymph –

Skipping opportunities like a child over cracks in the pavement.

Will the moors miss my crying when I am gone?

When I am there, do they crave my silence?

Shall I weep for the younger or the poorer?

I am conveniently happy with the indifference.

Not to proud, nor disatisfied with the ongoing.

I feel a discomfort familiar to us all in sleep,

When we recognise yet cannot reconcile

The anomalies and contradictions of a dream.

You are all the same to me now. A sea of massless

Gentiles; bothered and frightfully too put together.

You said, the world is going to die; the earth to end,

I could’ve explained sex to you, but death? But death –

I said, five birds on the birdfeeder facing outward

And identically still, growing and watching.

Now more than ever seems it rich to die.