Not near this extinction, the big bird
flies - it's living on long, long after
me. I am but a memory, so long away.
Out here, a few weeds make their motion
under sky and over land. Here we are,
then, for long and for forever. Like
Thomas Hardy - who ended up ashes
in Poet's Corner, with his heart
buried elsewhere - I too am
missing vital things. I am
the broken sun. Only my
golden heart remains.