Death Is No Destination

I came to you as the thought
of 48 years old
smelling of fear,
48 years old
and death was near.
You turned away –
through music,
through mental chatter,
through the phone call,
invitation of a friend.
So you did not see
the thought to its end.
No whiff had been caught,
no intimation felt
of the rich substratum of the thought.
Death is a part of you;
death is no destination –
but the heart of life, of you –
what lends freshness to the fruit,
what lends to love its light,
what chisels out the contours
of delight and makes it delight.
I came to you as the thought
of death – but you turned away,
a timid man from the call
of his highest potential,
the source and ground of all.
The fear seen into
would have gazed into you –
like the most stunning woman of all.
But you turned away
and made the phone call.
You turned – and so
your friendship doesn’t sing,
a pallid, lacklustre,
shoddy, mediocre thing.
So your listening
doesn’t glisten, so the bird
just outside your window perfume-pined,
and music are half-heard.
You turned away –
and your wife of 16 years
continues being realms away,
a comfort, a shadow of love
realms away…

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