A Late Memorial
By Geoffrey Heptonstall
The words, already written,
are now in the process of being
opened and heard at random,
to write with a momentum
of their own choosing.
And so begins an impossible hour
imbibed with passion—
the fear of not knowing
as others say they have known
how it will end when finally...
Those dreams were sung by everyone
drinking metaphor as spoken
by several personae, each with his name.
Later in the early hours he confesses
the ice complements a bourbon dawn,
smiling at the thought of everything
Waking to hear the well-remembered,
let us whisper the proper tea values
of English princes Shakespeared
by a Harvard man
so near the music of devoured dreams.
Knowing those neighbours,
they had a common source.
Approaching them, he died.
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