The melancholic ponders time
The family has died. They became
abstract, an equation which defies
the eye—where they disappeared to
Emily knew. The lady’s ghost
raised me naked in a house of fools.
What ennui doesn’t do youth will:
the suicide, the schizophrenic,
the sister cobbled from dust
she too became again. For poor
Eve drank herself to death.
As we age, we disintegrate
into memory: no miseries
befall the stillborn lucky,
how God in a bad mood
might have winked them into being.
As the melancholic ponders time,
he winces: for his family
of abstractions has caved to naught,
the bodies stranded in gas-lights
he dreamed up how he dreamed them.