I have not yet named the profound trough
in which to drown it perfectly.
You have to admit: you thought
you could simply reach down into the fray
with your hand
and wring the folds of the old rag
that lies in the bucket watching its kingdom
sprawling and heaving, sprawling and heaving,
until at last it only farts.
I want my life and death to be like that:
something rotten, a kingdom.
Filled with the mangy sense of resistance,
as the French say.
Here’s to that which cannot be made familiar.
Its loss is less and less these days.
(Cf. Jane Hirshfield)
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