Steven Stewart

Those Dying Days

Now silent, now that bird, and you, lying.
You knew the road, all strange the wandered words,
and what happened had an almost terrible,
forgotten sense to it. Or remember the cat
that died, which you, old, had broken:
it experienced ears, rain for eyes, days,
and a body on the thin end. You learned thirst
to patch the loose paint and hunger to repel flies,
buzzing in the wind, streaming above the blue ants.
Those dying days disappeared, drifted silently away.
You alone watched the end and cared. It was vast.

The cat understood its way down, the street dead
or inside it now. Deep within the microscopes,
the Company drew stamps, wondering where
the books and meanings were located. The world's
hillsides and wronged childhoods stemmed
from a now that had lasted too long. For years you rose,
your memories seeping out, swimming over
the sides, away from smells, tastes, and sight.
You closed the past and meditated on its surface,
choosing to sit below, waiting, as you must.

Now put all remembering aside: it's you alone,
a creation song.

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