So what is the cause of death? The inner
flying stops, it’s mysterious unless
there’s trauma to organs, bark or head.
A brick falls on a caterpillar,
not much mystery there but even unhurt,
thriving things seem pointing to their end
especially if psychology’s involved.
Smaller and smaller, the sea bashes everything
until voilà: sand. It is 10:30 then 10:34
then 40 years later. Time passing not the causer
but the caused. Baby now in trouble
with her credit cards, no more can you ask
the friend what you never could. The pier
turns to splinters, gown to dust-rags,
life to not-life. Even though everyone
already knows, is death a secret
that must be told and told? Almost sexual
although so many wires in our minds,
it’s easy to cross a few. Bend a paper clip
back and forth, it breaks, the molecules
can only take so much. Ann-Margret
bent back and forth. Scarlet king snake
bent back and forth. Wooden ladder.
Apple tree. Every sunset is a crease,
mother weighing less and less but falling
harder. What is the cause behind the cause
behind the cause? Smaller and smaller,
bodies slamming bodies, bent and bent
until only a few traits remain: color, cry,
residue of dream in the corner of an eye,
kiss on an envelope then the flying flown.
To where? Into solar flares? An angel’s hair?
The next one over there who’s not yet
an embryo? Or does it just disperse,
a spurt, a spark from the flinty gears?
So the sea bashes and bashes and the planes
take off and land and the fluffy murre chicks
waddle off the cliff.