someone-else’s-college-library at 12:28am on Monday morning – I honestly feel like I could go on forever, limited only by fear of waking up tomorrow paralysed with lethargy (and on essay crisis day, too) and by the dryness of my eyes (and by hunger also, but nothing a trip to Hassan’s later can’t fix). anyway,
“I’m rising five” he said
“Not four” and the little coils of hair
Un-clicked themselves upon his head.
His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare
At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light
Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He’d been alive
Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more;
But rising five.
Around him in the field, the cells of spring
Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot
And stem shook out the creases from their frills,
And every tree was swilled with green.
It was the season after blossoming,
Before the forming of the fruit:
But rising June.
And in the sky
The dust dissected the tangential light:
But rising night;
But rising soon.
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy
Throwing away his toffee-wrappers. We never see the flower,
But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marriage bed
In the baby’s cradle; we look for the grave in the bed;
But rising dead.