The Big
a poem
I continue to beg your indulgence while I write and post poetry, this one, o.c., in conversation with E.B. Browning. Profligate poetry fans who are tolerant of prose always have the option of buying a book?
The Big
…me by the hair. “Not death but love,”
I said, but seraphim that keep
Their lidless vigil from above
Hushed down, “Not love but sleep”;
And I am satisfied with this:
The winding sheet’s a snug embrace,
The pillow, moist, a gaping kiss
Upon my frothing face.
And as I stiffen where they’re laying
Me, lulléd by the tolling bells
To sleep, the seraphim are saying
Something else.
