…With wasteful, weak, propitiatory flowers.
—Philip Larkin, The Building
Hoo-ray! As Peete proclaims perfection in
Adamantine and pterodactyl-like,
Pall pens, There are no wings to speak of,
They remark on the weather together.
Peete has been outside to grab
a cigarette. He writes, Rain, to describe
the Roc. Pall in the rotunda writes,
and dwelling in the rain, a translation,
a transition to bittersweet, as in the You—
apostrophizing the You—as in You praise God for those
who do. You praise another God for those
who don’t. Perhaps neglecting, Death that can
climb walls, that it’s the subject in The rain can’t, and
the water can. All writers write translation,
so Peete can write it out as: Death, as rain
can’t climb the walls, You must have praise—
one God for those who do, another God
for those who don’t. Much simpler, yes?
As imperceptible as rain is too—at least to Pall.
Death, you praise God and you mock Him. We agree.
We wanted currant pie and music by Bechet,
You wanted the last breaths to be quotidian,
a bee, its stinger poised…
So ends the poem.
It ends like the death it commemorates,
as if it’s built on precious skin, skin turned
to leather wings, growth on the breasts, as if
‘No wings’ means no to cherubs too.
So, no transition, translation, no siren in the night.
Most poems are little stories of a metamorphosis,
not death. Rain to pools of water.
They’re written as if to mark the weather,
how it’s poised, that’s all…