Of Horizons
you mock death and religion as fantasies
covering for stark unknowables.
Yet here you are uninterrupted
a burdened sunset lasting half the night
beside a lake, the chatter of friends unheard.
A rumor of a friend’s death no one
notified you of, one falling into
a dark lake without a body, a cloud
of memories recycled in a hundred
directions, no suggestion of self
remains, no vampire or hooded saint
a death without religion unfolding
as a sunset; still lake no horizon.
The Dog Star 
2 Responses to “Of Horizons”
”a death without religion unfolding
as a sunset; still lake no horizon.“
this thunders quietly, with authority. one of your finest.
Thanks, Craig. Whitehead, who lost a son in WW1, said poems about grief merely trivialize it. I’ve tried not to do so.