all shall pay the debt of living-
the cheque marked by our resting place
waiting to be dated
a telegraph needlepoint
woven in the hem of the fields
seeded and planted in our rows
inked by the heavens
drying in a lifetime’s twilight
(they are only soiling us
I once heard you say,
by leaving roses and their thorns by our places
mats with their keys left below
so long forgotten
and only its place picked
disregarding those weeping bulbs
socketed only above our own
and their stems drooping as indecision ripens
leaving a mere head
as each hair on the neck falls away-
the curtain page is cut/
leaving but a shallow imprint
as another mark is torn from its birthplace
and the graves embossed in ivy still say
“nothing is set in stone.”
not unlike that droughted pen
it all dries up.
(in death- we all come up empty handed.)