Tuesday, November 24, 2020


In cold wet late 
November, everything says—you too 
must end.

But our bodies, stiff 
and soggy though they are, 
keep on

to the mailbox, slouching toward 
the grocery store. 

The grim cadaverous 
limbs of trees, the bloated wreck 
of leaves 

clotting each gutter,
the bleak iron 
fences, the toneless concrete;

the souls of everything here
keep whispering— 
like us, soon, you too shall be

Yet we go about our tedious business; 
we have duties 
to attend. We may be 

frightened, but we, the living 
shall heed no injunction 
from any thing which is dead.