We move, like an insolvent, touring band;
and when we go, we're blurred you understand.
We leave the kettle on, TV blaring
drool half the cake, dreary novel wearing
just grasp of space that hands once held before.
Pronounce the sentence. Who'll read anymore?
and then when gone, who'll mention us again?
One summer, three friends sailed quite near to Spain
and next year, just two spoke of it in brief
as if a darkened storm with wave-screamed grief
might drown them too in wash of restless sleep.
Yet they're in rooms-This sea of pain is deep.
Too sad, one then is cleared away and swept
to silence. We were never born. What crept
with time was faith that what seemed us was real.
Gone, they're claim you've not been-Death's double-deal
is painful pact of friends. We're not busy,
but won't dropp in. No need to fuss at tea.
Families just lament. Old dates to them
remind them of the late. Loved ones condemn
the dead; harsh stillness lends no good-byes
at end of days. The silence speaks just lies.
And those now alive will wordless, recline,
pulse-free block to some friend's way; as war shrine,
bird-witnessed, irks awkward shame on some main
street. But no word censures those none again
can meet. Death's that stupored, slack relation;
stoned, slurs each dirge, lacks coordination;
But housed with death, composure takes to fate;
For ease with death comes early or past late.