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