The Triumph of Death
These watches. Ticking, still. Each hour is cold:
the rims surround quick voices. Shut in rooms.
Gone. Tick. The towers. Tock. A fold
in air. We're smoke, drifting. A painted doom
where cities burn and ships go down. Death's
dark sky - a grainy docudrama. Time
swings bones on circus wheels. Listen: wind's breath,
a shriek. Theatrum Mundi. In their prime,
the living. Leapt. That buckling of the knees.
Then gunshots: plastic bags on fences. Snapping.
Or loose. Thank you - shop - at. The lovers see
nothing. He plays a lute. She sings. Clapping -
machines sift through debris for the remains.
A sales receipt, a shoe. The silvery rain.
Copyright © 2003 Anne Simpson