Tuesday, November 21, 2006


My son is four. His teacher swooned on a grey pavement

Five miles from here and died. From where she lay, her new skirt 

Flapped and fluttered, a green flag, half-mast, to proclaim death's 

Minor triumphs. The wind was strong, the poor men carried 

Pink elephant-gods to the sea that day. They moved in 

Long gaudy processions, they clapped cymbals, they beat drums 

And they sang aloud, she who lay in a faint was drowned 

in their song. The evening paper carried the news. He 

Bathed, drank milk, wrote two crooked lines of Ds and waited. 

But the dead rang no doorbell. He is only four. 

For many years he will not be told that tragedy 

Flew over him one afternoon, an old sad bird, and 

Gently touched his shoulder with its wing. more...


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