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Death Not Yet August 4, 2013

Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.

Build the funerary urn
with mud & spit,
bit by bit under
an unconcerned sun
which none-the-less will
harden it shard by shard
until the last spittle
is dabbed from your chin.

Build the funeral pyre
twig by stick
bit by bit beside
the muddy river,
ashes from flashes
& dust to muck
by summer thunder after
the last match is struck.

This much is required.
The woman lying between
you & the muddy river,
beneath the shade tree,
flower necklace on her breast
& serenade of bird song:
her you must earn &
treasure while you may.



1. Ray Ward - August 4, 2013

Good stuff, Mark. Thanks.


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