WHERE THE BEAST
YET LIVES
I genuflect too easily at all the graves
of saints - but it's the ones of sinners
where
I get really carried away. No one says anything,
they just watch. This new northern wind blows
candy wrappers across my feet - here and
there
something wayward blows. It was, I am sure, once
said that death is sacred, but no more. People are
slobs, of a general condition, and think nothing of
leaving their matter behind. It's all so relentless,
this
dining and diving and dying. Everything together and
jumbled, as if there's no room for anything left.
-
I've always meant to be present at the second creation:
I really want to see how things come to be. The new
wave of a little river cutting rock, the diamond styles
of the new-found light of Heaven, climbing us back to
something we've lost. Maybe it's true about all that,
first time, the try; second time, the folly. It won't
matter.
To be sure, there will be someone standing around
selling
something to litter - coffee cups in Eden II, or
another
candy wrapper with the sweetness of Hell entwined.
-
I'll be the sorry soldier holding his head, sitting back
on
the concrete veranda, just pretending I don't see a
thing.
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