The Dead

This morning
I made my way through the cemetery.

The flowers,
roses of many colors,
like the ones we bought together.

I don't know why I thought he would be waiting,
sitting on his patch of grass,
smiling at me.

When I arrived,
he was of course not sitting there.

But then, I of course
did not expect to see him there. I of course
was not at the cemetery today.
No one has died,

but today, I felt that someone had.

Written February 12, 2005

[a fragment poem, based on found text] By Richard Fox

-


It is very good to bathe in such weather as today,

when the sun slightly slept
I can not speak anything concrete.

I am compelled to you to speak good-bye,
still interesting and clear.

I have gone still today, into a garden:
there is a monkey wrench in the thorn room.

In the street, in a shadow:
here the present is warm

and lucklessness has developed so
that I have lost loved persons, places and things.

It was huge to mountain
when I learned what it was lost.

In the head may not come at all that
I have an inclination to the grave:

we are very much adhered from childhood.

The inclination practically never deceived me.
Also I think what she has brought me now

and now. On this I would like to add a word:
eyes at me brown; hair, on a nature, dark.

Written by Richard Fox
Date Unknown