My mother lives under the ground
so I am drawn to that country
still air cools water trickles black
roots tower down in her house
up here a sky never whole
buoys around light of the moon
I could spend half a year
down where she always lives
*
respiration of sky
moisture of sheets:
dying not so private
as everyone supposed she
says to me
the most poletical subject –
don't lie – how come –
click cut paste precise
poet surgeon son
*
physical death no metaphor
to transport you over or down river
physical fear of intellectual fear
mother not
all the things ings happening
at once would be an
afterwards
an afterword an Over & Out.
The Republic will survive mutation
[they "didn't get all of it out"]
paralysis
The Dead will dead
they may be
pyrrhic
meta-static
grown up
