Sunday, February 2, 2014

House of Dust

I would be only too happy
To believe, looking westward,
Looking upward, looking downward,
That I was pointing my gaze

In the direction of the land
Of the dead. Nothing more
Romantic than a locatable
Turf for all gone humans exists.

The prelapsarian gardens,
Golden ages, and islands
Of blissful savagery tempt me
Less than any underworld

However dour. Even Hell,
In its worst monotheistic
Incarnations, has a certain
Panache no Eden garners

With me. It's not immortality.
Who wants to hang around
Forever, haunting or hungry
Or both, or even lotos-sated

And addle-pated? It's the visit,
The dream of every epic, real
Awe and horrifying magic, the dead
Arrayed however belief demands

Of the poet, but gathered,
Gathering, somewhere, some real
Where, beyond any real visit
That tempts me. Let me go.

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