At the round earth's imagin'd corners

At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
From death, you numberlesse infinities
Of soules, and to your scattered bodies goe,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
As if thou’hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.

-- John Donne

Saturday, December 17, 2016

24. Scrawled on Memo Line of Giant Novelty Check Presented by Blackgall Creamery to Diluvian Street Firehouse Rebuilding Fund Dated 12/25/1985

Dead have outnumbered the living for a long time. Dead float all around unseen, smoke rings in fog. Dead watch, uncountable veiled eyes see your bloody birth, see you grow, struggle, restless and noisy, see you finally lose all to pitiless years and fall into silence. Dead watch.

Dead follow you out of the womb, into the ground, pallid balloons on spidersilk strings.

Dead see you the living and see a breeding herd for more dead. Every blood-warm squalling baby is dead-in-waiting, heir to a few quick years of hot thrashing life before endless echoless After. Watching.

We see you.

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