He is young. The father is dead.
Outside, a cold November night,
the mourner’s cars are parked upon the lawn;
beneath the porch light three
brothers talk to three sons
and shiver without knowing it.
His mind’s all black thickets
and blood: he knows
flesh slips quietly off bone,
he knows no last look,
that among the profusion of flowers
the lid is closed to hide
what no one could bear,
that metal rends the flesh,
that in the distant talk of brothers,
beneath the white pointed creatures, stars,
the father is dead.
David
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