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.