Lament for the Living

We feel them walking over us in their intolerable shoes,knocking down our stone doors. And whatwould they have us do—come outside?We will not afternoon among the pigeons,who loiter like blanched old men in a sauna,moaning "arrgargahhh" but meaning to say"shut the door" but meaning "let this dayend me." Their dicks lolling across their thighs,gummy and white as gefilte fish.                                                           Overwrought? Yes.But this is just one tunnel through the story,and it is not the one that leads to some outsidethat is sweet and green. What if we had knownwe were in the last five years of our lives?What a relief! To look around and sayhow fine it is, to awaken in the cracked sun,to knock back a berry into our mouthslike a large and living pill! To have twoand a half years to eat before our time is resetinto a new measure of halfness. And it goes.For decades we split ourselves across the longingof an asymptote, until one day we reach down to wipeand we're putting our hand                                                           through a ghost.And then it becomes intolerable. Like fruit salad —a grape disguised in the juices of a cantaloupe.We leave behind a dotted line, and all these people!They follow it like a map to heaven,when all we meant was "cut here."