Artemis Astarte Aphrodite
Look on stone and blend brushed hair
Spread in grey oscuro air
about the cornice of a room
She startles purity and some unwashed pain
For an affinity of endings
should not see
Fair blushed beauty and what comes before
Energy of movement against the tactile fluted jamb
augury in bones
Two days she lay among
The cottered parts of human
of bones and stone.
Here above unknown
What shall be known beneath.
Rain stains gray stone
Spreads downward from her hair
Fan matted in vibrant grass
Green darkens the cenotaph
Above her corpse because
She could not wait her own.
Then to rattle in the sage surveyed dawn
Matched in lime
Forms in cloud close bodies
Gather to rightness
Execute for loss
The grave gathered lot trampled
Nodding and later
redburnt the glowered
acacias in lustre
Blind even for Death
For the closed heart
Whose burning fondness for centricity
Residue of Iris in mind
Bridges the chasms that deepen in mourning
And falter after famine filled
Galileo lucky even in his numbers
4 9 10 15
Proportion of the degree of speed
To arrive by chance at the parabola
Of gravity that serves nature's need.
Toute mort doit estre de mesmes sa vie.
Nous ne devenons pas autres pour mourir.
Every death ought to hold proportion
With the life before it.
We do not become others for dying.
Montaigne, "Of Cruelty"
A hushed propensity for weariness
Weighs heavily on my mind:
Lifted by a flight of birds.
Death that comes late is never tardy fare.
Morte cavent animae, semper que priore relicta
Sede, novis dormini vivunt, habitantque receptae.
Souls never die, but leaving one dwelling
Are received into and inhabit a new.
Ovid, Metamorphoses, xv, 158