Tumble Creek flows past,
Fluid, changing, carrying
Life and death like years.



Every room the same–
ten 12 x 12 tiles this way,
ten 12 x 12 tiles that way–
perfect squares; identical

rolling beds; chrome IV trees
dripping sap at nearly

the same slow rate;
same worn white

storing the same supplies;
every room housing

an indistinguishable
fear of death.

Conrad Aiken: from Tetelestai

Say that I have no name, no gifts, no power,
Am only one of millions, mostly silent;
One who came with eyes and hands and a heart,
Looked on beauty, and loved it, and then left it.
Say that the fates of time and space obscured me,
Led me a thousand ways to pain, bemused me,
Wrapped me in ugliness; and like great spiders
Dispatched me at their leisure. . . . Well, what then?
Should I not hear, as I lie down in dust,
The horns of glory blowing above my burial?

Conrad Aiken’s remains lie in the dust just down the street from my house. Not sure why, but this fact makes the above lines a bit more poignant to me.