Sunday, July 09, 2017

Rachel Jones Uproar. On the Day of her Death.

as though one should hold upon high
high high they cry but no
messing now is the winter of a life
less lived but if we charit
then no less oh stop there is
and is almost and is not

listen, creep. I knew and knew not
but it crawls

upon just now death, its yellow/grey bony place
its cessation, its evacuation, its nice thing
that we think of as

things as though perhaps
some spirit were near (here, spirit,
one could, hey no, here, serious now

(here, spirit!)

not help but feel that, and want to reach
her at the utmost
and say
and feel the birth
of religion/shamanism/the caribou fucking
drear the vast unforgiving wall of grey
the unappointed

death just now i have been in the presence
of death and other death the other language

frog creature leaping with deep resonance
into the haiku of nothing

I cried. clumsy. ill-fitting. that's all I had.

goodnight, powerful woman x



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