22nd May 2009
The head burns slow; the heart burns slower still.
The thin burn quickly while fat people fill
ovens with sudden wild-fire, char the bricks.
And what's left afterwards is just a mix
of fine white dust, misshapen bits of bone,
screws from your crowns, perhaps. And all you own
sits in a cousin's attic, or a skip
out in the street. A memory of your lip
quivering on a nipple, or a speech
you gave once, lasts. But very shortly each
of those who loved or hated you will go
through the same process. This is what we know
without a question. Everything will pass
cities and mountains, songbirds and sweet grass.