A Poem by David Grundy

Please don’t talk about me when I’m gone
I.m. John Ashbery

Rain falls to halt, fails
to the clock he walks and passes
disappearing into tokens
distributed with care

Just then thinking
of the joy I never knew
nor anyone;

Repeating this knowledge
till the implements fail and some new manner
manifests, I thought of distance
and the lonesome miles the rain calls quotations
calls into question
when it’s over, when it’s faded:

Joy and antagonism,
a dream clear as representation

Till the bulb breaks
the light remains
even at the furthest extent
of shadow extending

One sentence pursues its logic to the next
echo on echo set up to loop
pulling bricks of fact
a thick description
hidden in disappearing truths

Last night’s laughs they matter
what matter I forget
seized by the urge to record each passing
greatly changed, if not visibly so
in dark light developing blurred
developing engraved in grave concern

All we know is that we are a little early
and too late to say any better
taking part in parting
the silence after the last crescendo
awash still with the memory of sound.

Pause at the door
for the whispers to reach you,
and wait, if you must
for the last seat set at the feast

Gently covering the dust
where once the table stood
The actors forget their lines
Forget to depart
with adequate balance

stay flickering shape

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