The Disappointing Dead

 

Shall I tell you about the dead,

Who have no alibis,

Who do not care what’s said,

Bald truth or naked lies,

Who have no sense of loss,

Who do not groan in grief,

Nor grouse beneath their cross,

But won’t confess belief?

See for yourself? No fear

(But you won’t miss your eyes);

And though you disappear,

We shall feel no surprise.

Exercise: Patience & the Monument

 

A choice to be alone is good,

Although you haven't practiced much.
Don't walk. Don't hurt. Don't cook. Don't touch.
Pretend your legs are made of wood,

Pinocchian your heart and head.
Remembering is quite all right,
But try to reach beyond tonight.
Concentrate on your ancient dead--

I don't mean Agamemnon's brood
Or Marshall Ney's aunt's brother's wife.
Someone on whom you bet your life
And lost. Back when the world was lewd

And you in touch. All right. Enough.
Now you can make your mac and cheese
And sing what every little breeze
Whispers. And feel your legs. And stuff.