by Aidan Andrew Dun


If exploration
of the grave
ties back a
wind-swept nowhere

If, braving decay
with vegetable wreckage
I down-negotiate
the nitrogen-cycle

If my outlined
immortality is turned away
to furnaces within
and crumbles aimlessly.

If the excellent ordeal
I, hesitating sometimes
speak of, that nexus
trodden so funereally

Begins beneath
some olden obelisk
which silently
collapses in my way

My error will not
look me in the face:
I will not have to see
that final day.