THE TRIUMVIRATE

They push away from the skeletal remains
of Easter dinner. All symbolic interaction
is mute during the quiet execution

of clearing the table and folding linen.
Spilt Beaujolais soaks into the white tablecloth,
and transforms it into the shroud of Turin.

With the digestifs duly dispatched -
three men of median age exact the ritual
of the after-dinner stroll. Three friends

exit the front door, greeted by the cold;
tufts of warmth spurt from their mouths
between cigarettes and extinction.


A PILGRIMAGE TO L'ORIGNAL

That he that is not busy being born
is busy dying.
                           Bob Dylan

The last station to cross is the dirt road
that hits harder when the long drive
comes to a halt. You hate yourself
for begrudging her even this inconvenience.

The ranch house looks lost on the five-acres
of lawn that disappears into the undergrowth
and the bifocal eyes between the slats
of a shuttered window. "So you've come,"

a voice squeaks through the screen door
which reveals curator and medicus. She leads
you to a room with closed blinds; leaves
you with the changeling on the bed. You
could never have prepared for this.

The light tumbles into the room as you pull
up the blinds; turn to examine the face
of a homeless mind - translucent
and flaccid, blackened by pain.
She opens one good eye - greyer
than the clouds that spilt forgiveness
on you - and you are lost.

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