This is what our dying looks like.
You believe in the sun. I believe
I can't love you. Always be closing,
Said our favorite professor before
He let the gun go off in his mouth.
I turned 29 the way any man turns
In his sleep, unaware of the earth
Moving beneath him, its plates in
Their places, a dated disagreement.
Let's fight it out, baby. You have
Only so long left — a man turning
In his sleep — so I take a picture.
I won't look at it, of course. It's
His bad side, his Mr. Hyde, the hole

Mama said
it only existed in storybooks

with its soft surface
of  bluebells

but there it was
spinning so close to the earth

that it bent
every weather vane in Omaha

it was prom night

and I thought I’ d pluck a few
trumpets

to bring your Grandma

so I pulled our red ladder out
of  the garage

and climbed to the roof

I stood up
and imagined I was balancing

the moon on my head

the narrow windows of  Union
Station

gleamed like ice chips

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

THE hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
The crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black birds
Sweep past the window again.

Along the vacant road, a red
Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
To leap down at our gate.

He has passed us by; but is it
Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
She has no rest.