Edinburgh Elegy
Edinburgh Elegy
His mother’s friends
Promised her they’d release
A film canister of his ashes
Near Arthur’s Seat,
Where I took his picture
Sitting at the top
On the brass marker that gives
The direction and distance
To places we’d been,
Or hoped to go.
Should I love one place more
Than Loch Lomond or Stranraer,
Now that he’s part
Of its pollen and dirt?
I don’t know;
I’m as new to this
As I was to the city
We climbed above
As it rained without conviction,
Thin clouds of mist
Folding in the firth.
Originally published in Migrants and Stowaways
Triste
Triste
Whatever drips from us,
Sometimes pours,
Blood, mucous, sweat,
Urine, semen, tears,
Whatever is waxy or wet,
Viscous or slick,
Mostly in sickness
But also in health
We just can’t contain ourselves.
There’s always something
Gathering, massing,
Welling up, looking for the closest
Causeway, pore, portal, duct—