by Daniel Anderson
from Drunk in Sunlight
The Johns Hopkins University Press
Tomorrow he will die.
For now, though, see him drowsing in the shade.
A cardinal cracks the red whip of its flight.
Frail butterflies--the metalmark,
The spicebush swallowtail--are lobbed
like painted tissue on the air.
The wind, as might carve on fields of wheat,
Combs over his black coat. I've set him there
As water irises prepare
Their gold unfolding in the rain-fresh pond.
Last meal: Steamed rice. Grilled strips of steak.
Last lazy afternoon. Last hour
To watch the clouds drift like meringues,
To watch them blended into tones of peach
Then deepen to the dusky tints of plums.
One last command to heed or disobey,
But it's not me who's calling Virgil now,
It's Death who's calling, calling, calling,
And he comes.
[The picture is of Brandy, whose story made me cry. Via bernese.biz]
[Poem from Poetry Daily]
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