in the garden with a poet

when we died we noticed
after clutching at living so long
we had forgotten to be alive –
and now it was night
– David McLean

Sitting with the blackbird’s song and
the clamorous virus that is thinking.

The invidious penumbra of biography a dark lie.

The same sun: the same fat yellow eye
that never cries.

Turning pages: a mortal narrative like everything
living, while those who wish to abrogate the volume
of their diseases forget memory and senescent cells.

Days are here – untidy. That is the beauty
of light: it illuminates the mess
for embracing. We are

a long time nothing. There is no place
to exhibit the night like a sword. 


Inspired by reading ‘laughing at funerals’ by David McLean, available here.


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