35

No sooner death than the birth,
hopefulness and hopelessness
chase the blurring spinning urn
stopped for the spinning to begin
'til one can't tell which one it is
that gives the chase or which is chased,

which is the cause, if there is one.



He for whom I went unshaven,
He for whom I marched for rights,
He whose broken voice I loved,
Pushing through with failing might
The needle-hole of emphysema

(Reminding me of my own mother's
The very blood's asphyxiation)

Stands hat-doffed above me, smiling.
Words, words, drip from his lips.
I sink, he rises; he rises, I sink
Til the black pupil bores
A primal laugh through a greeting card.



Weal and woe upon the wheel:
Made on one, broken on the other:



He who knows me knows him too.
Who in safety knows all three?


© Dan Goorevitch, 2003