A Good Funeral

A Good Funeral

With words selected from Mark Strand's

"The Good Life"

You stand at the window

of dark, cut glass, a silhouette of your

father.

Death sighs and a fog enters

your skull; you are to be buried among

roots.

The service is brief:

yellow sky, mid October, yellow life just

browning high up in the boughs,

and there is nothing anyone

can do.

She gives no warning, she closes the

eye, she

leaves on foot, that part of you we miss

already, following.