Alfred Corn
GLOZE
Life breaks its contracts and its pact with death.
Is it what we expected? Out as in,
Up, down-a seesaw of thought to season
Part of the pain, winter turning autumn,
The soldier rising from his grave? Light falls
On the man, but he does not become it.
A man who walked three nights and days never
Assumed that august personage was less
Imposing for his deeds of separation.
Our calling for pomp, our parading death
Is no absolute; and we live without
A hope of memorial, as though days
In
future time, a season of banished
Desire, when the wind sings and never stops,
Or when the blue wind stops and goes over
To the despair of means, will fade into
Voiceless heavens. The clouds remain and go
Under the dark. Nevertheless, in us
Their direction finds a ghostly echo.
