Always Searching . . .

(a reflection on Gustav Courbet’s Burial at Onan and his exchange of romanticism for realism)

The corpse: clay-molded

tint and timbre of living being,

gaspless, tearless, hidden,

like life’s mourners stolid, lifeless

obscuring thoughts of self-demise.

The priest alone cradles hope

but repetitious, death fatigues

like the Christ of the crucifix

A cruel staccato rat-a-tat-tat

until, in our numbness,

we give up our own souls

to the pit

And one kneeling at the grave looks up.

Is that all you have:

dirt and dust and soul in the sky?

No tear for loss,

only the book and crucifix

and another who dies as we.

Even the dog looks away

but you, your darkened tones

speak your melancholy melody

Orphaned, distanced,

darkness is all you know.

Your heart bangs shut

in violent storm

Scattered shadows locked within

a heart that will not see.

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