To an old man what is more natural
than to die?
Cicero
Individuals die species die
the fleeting made eternal through incessant change
yet how unnatural it seems that eels and I
will cease to be
Senescence – elongated a little age to age
mental powers the last to decline
no excuse to be a bore plant an English garden
memorize French
Baudelaire La Mort des pauvres
C’est la clarté vibrante à notre horizon noir
C’est l’auberge fameuse inscrite sur le livre,
Où l’on pourra manger, et dormir et s’asseoir
Recall yesterday’s dream – a feast
hosted by childhood’s long gone sons
a hand-embroidered cloth on which
thrice I spilled blood red wine
Am I too blithe? too careless
with lead-footed crazy-paced time?
Not my expectation a poor soul’s adieu
death as consolation
At the end of the voyage his brain on fire
he vows to plunge into the abyss
Au fond de L’Inconnu
pour trouver du noueau!
The body’s longing for release
melds with its fierce grip to stay
I’ll be wrenched from all I love
but welcome death’s alchemy
whether led to some high-spirited unknown
or dissolved
perhaps reconfigured
in another time another place