Three Poems

Death is a city more remote than all my arduous
imaginings. I saw only the leaving for it -

no, not even that; the place of leaving.
I hurried, frantic while there still was time,

but time itself had shut like a flower, a day lily,
folded quickly after sundown, and she with it,

leaving face and hair that were mere substance,
things of shape and colour; nothing. I turned away.

I had missed her then. She had already made
a home in the unimaginable town, the room

beyond rooms, place without place, cold where
coldness has no temperature. What business

had I with this stony replica? 'Barely an hour'
they said. An hour? A million years - it does not

signify. I can make up time and distance as I
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