THE MIRE IN WHICH WE ALL DROWN

To PRC

1

You say you can't see -

three, no, now four days

since it started. I said,

and know you won't,

to go and see a doctor.

I fear it's neurological,

but won't say it to you;

I know you think

I would try just to hurt.

You will persevere in this

suffering I have brought

to being, the mire in

which we all drown,

like the ones here -

those which I never

took you to see;

you and me and they,

they who sleep the

dreamless sleep

under the newly fallen snow.

2

I haven't eaten in three days

much more than fried sunflower seeds

(like those you made),

and two kiwi fruits (the

most delicious I ever ate),

have drank endless cups of black coffee

translating Edward Thomas,

so long dead in Arras;

they claimed to his widow

that he died peacefully, a blast

stopping his heart; but

he died a soldier's death, not

of a poet's: A bullet in his chest.

3

The new neighbours

stand out in the snow, talking,

at eleven o'clock in the night;

smoking, I guess, to

shorten their lives. I

try to find reasons to go

into the store tomorrow,

but find less and less reasons

to leave, to walk the

suddenly snowbound earth

when the oblivion like a day in Arras

beckons so close by.

04.03.2020