We put our fingers in death’s mouth, up death’s ass
To know we are objects, to remain objective
This represents “that person,” a kind of fellowship
With the dead, mysticism is our business
Though weary with wonder, always the link
Between death and the photograph, because that
Person or thing is no longer present, mark time
Through banality, specimens pinned as
Though once lived, giving life to shade that pinning
Seems the potential for something to move
Anything that means something, no association is free
We pay for it with our lives, in dailyness the whole
World’s draft, memento mori, this recognition
That we are living in someone’s place ancient
As our sense of bad faith, ancient as any symbolism.
No comments:
Post a Comment