for Alain @oceanpacific0

Sunday afternoon

July, mid winter.  darkness hugs the car as it rounds the sprawling cemetery where so many lie, this close to the city.  with all their paraphernalia - dead flowers, cracked vases, faded portraits.  a great sea of stone.  architectural, the way we codify the dead and shut the living out.  ghosts flicker in the wing mirror of passing cars, eyes stay fixed ahead - we miss them.  further on, out towards the park the traffic's tail, red eyes click on, and off.  play follow the leader all the way to Mass at five o’clock.

lights glow, warm against the dark and cold.  a coming home, and, to a death inside.  not mine, not yet, but death always threatening.  'what rough beast, its hour come round at last'.  Yeats, surely a revelation is at hand?  some births loom large, present in their absence, and without a name.  they don't cleave to this life.  Buddhists call it karma, and wonder why we celebrate birthdays when they return us to suffering.  it's more powerful to imagine what might have been, than to live with the very ordinary weight.  of this life

--Amanda Surrey

ds the sprawling cemetery

where so many lie, this close to the city. with al

l their paraphernalia - dead

flowers, cracked vases, faded portraits. a great s

ea of stone. architectural,

the way we codify the dead and shut the living out.

ghosts flicker in the wing

mirror of passing cars, eyes stay fixed ahead - we

miss them. further on, out

towards the park the traffic's tail, red eyes click

on, and off. play follow the

leader all the way to Mass at five o

’

clock.

lights glow, warm against the dark and cold. a com

ing home, and, to a death

inside. not mine, not yet, but death always threat

ening. 'what rough beast, its

hour come round at last'. Yeats, surely a revelati

on is at hand? some births

loom large, present in their absence, and without a

name. they don't cleave

to this life. Buddhists call it karma, and wonder

why we celebrate birthdays

when they return us to suffering. it's more powerf

ul to imagine what might

have been, than to live with the very ordinary weig

ht. of this life