No blinding light of tropical day
nor secrecy of northern night
can further mask our desolation:
an idea is not responsible
for the lives of those who hold it.
Flotsam, jetsam,
such ribald anarchic terms.
Death was kind to you:
a scant scattering of mourners,
myself among them.
The garbled service
was dismal. Predictably so.
I could hear your dry chuckle.
I shall attend your funeral, old boy,
or else you shall attend mine.
I remember you saying that.
People live
as long as other people live
who still remember.
