From the Archives...
Lemming, A Pool Slide
Oh! Make it an easy death.
Let those rattles that chase me
direct me to an easy path—
Let me slip gently into your
skeletal arms,
your bone fingers.
Let them surround me quietly,
let there be no crunching.
We run in groups often—
Fast on a motorway with
the top down,
shooting through the sky
by giant vacuums,
lying in bed breathing cancers,
ignoring viruses,
studying the veins of our eyelids,
our little pulled-down blinds.
Let the flowers come first
like soft cots,
floating hammocks.
Let the procession be quiet and urgent!
Let it be a parade of lemmings,
A sightless festival,
an orgy to the sea.