Let the dogs run the wet meadow.
Don't grumble unmapable sadness
at scouring pads of grey cloud abrading
the night sky. Quit fretting about the end
of everything while it's unfolding. Whining
turns the brain to molasses. Regret clogs
arteries. Born empty-handed, we gawk
at circling hawks, stuff ourselves
with bread and sex. Maybe we scream
or sing. Philosophers say we're made
of fire and smolder all our lives.
Then ash provides the most elegant
last transport imaginable. No need
for granite slabs or satin-lined coffins.
You'll waft over your old haunts
as key scenes play out below. Something
in you strains to remember, could almost
narrate incinerated bits of prior lives.
The dogs blazing across the drenched
meadow were once you and you them,
avid, chasing rabbits, as the garrulous
world drawled on and on and on.
American Poetry Review
July / August 2014