We moved on from intimations
To whisper in the dead of night.

Old man poet would see a bone
Under pneumatic Russian bust.

Death danced in  timeless bone.
It was  intimations of mortality.

Grishkin had an underlined eye.
Beneath was dumb daffodil bulb

And wind woodshed through it
And laughter was raucous skull.

But over all the calculated bones
We see love and poems clinging

As if the calcium has still a fever
Much after pneumatic bliss goes.

(Reading T.S.Eliot’s poem “Whispers of Immortality”)


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