Whenever birds belt out their florid lure
I think of you.
Wherever sun glitters in the river,
wherever water springs,
leaking crystal clarity,
whenever rain
crystallize in the sky's chandelier
and bows,
whenever blossoms inflame windows
whenever roses bloom in my blood,
I think of you.
Your death is alive.
It is everywhere:
it is in the carcass of substance,
from the birth of each seed,
excavating in every chrysalis,
to
the wuthering heights
of distance and dissolution.
Your death is everywhere.
Your death is the voice reeds
spreading
the tune of passion,
the voice of man.
Your death
is the instrument you made with your life,
is the vastness
you unwind in you dying bed.
Your death
is the survival of your music.
Your death is me,
your son!
