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
