677. MY LIFE IS A FUNERAL

MY LIFE IS A FUNERAL
I am writing a letter to Harold, who has just
died. Something like the Sixth of January, some
year or another. Twelfth Night. Epiphany, near
to anything of that sort. Faint holidays in which
those who revel find means to revel while others
abstain. Care less. Couldn't. I know that he won't
read it. I know that he won't respond. His body is,
in fact, probably still warm, or would be had they
let it. Nothing like that occurs these days.
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Parsifal. Oasis. Morgan Le Fey.
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Into a great dudgeon some people fly.
There are things on their counter-tops and
bookshelves which cannot stay still. Haverford lamps.
Waterford crystal. Pingree-dot paintings. Postcards
from Brasilia. In an orb-like standing, the great gash
of the world soils the globe. The tattered photo of a
half-naked woman on the wall of an old garage.
We are meant to be, in our way, only what we are.
Or were. We are meant to be what we were
meant to be. I am writing a letter to Harold.
Who has just died.