Some people read poems about spending a lot of time in graveyards. They don’t hate these poems. “Ooh!” they say. “I hate spending a lot of time in graveyards!” Not all poems are about loitering in cemeteries, though. Some lyrics concern a horsey, the current president, or the prevalence of vulgarity. “Vulgarity-current president,” says one ambitious verse. “Horsey-vulgarity,” goes another. Yet a third may offer, “Current president-horsey.”
If someone has died, there follows the day after someone has died. That day is almost always wintry, even if it’s the chalky cloud-swells of a wintry sky during a season of oppressive heat. Can the sky grow any oilier or smokier? In the end, there are no achievable geometries. (Can you disprove it?) Perhaps the word “achievable” should be subtracted. It supposes attainment, as in scaling a truth, or encountering a love that forever regenerates forgiveness.
Another person has been slain. Most cessation doesn’t murder but murder almost always results in cessation. Perhaps the holy nature of stoppages kindles an impulse to envision the kingdom of the dead. Of all the unachievable geometries—wandering, sound maps, savage proximity, and slackening—only slackening can result in catastrophe. There follows the day after someone has died. That day, and every day in succession, is a white stone. Can you disprove it?
My friend, we’re all going to spend a lot of time in graveyards. Ever notice how walking is like the body through the body? Currency jangles in a coin pocket. The afternoon declares shady intervals until the curvature and curtain of disengagement. Some people read poems about the moon, its quarter-hopes and half-hopes, its hidden alertness. They don’t hate these poems. The moon tugs and we may listen in order to defamiliarize. As with any loss, how crucial the disbelief?