The heavy lidded enterprise of the dead
begins with forgetting, ends with forgotten.
Like smoke, so thick at first but higher
just a wisp, until it is indistinguishable
from air. The move from youth to old age,
doesnÃt it resemble falling, a leaf descending
from white birch to front lawn? You think
it drifts slowly? It plummets. And this well-
dressed elderly man crossing against the light.
At the curb he puts a hand to his chest. He feels
a fluttering which suggests the birth of angels:
a sudden consciousness, the thrashing of wings