Someone, somewhere, sits alone in a house
Who would, most probably, rather not be alone
And considers the difference between alone and lonely
While brushing her hair, pouring another cup
Thinking about a lover of indeterminate nature
The Sphinx, which survives one more day, wears away
But doesn’t mind the thought of extinction
Sand is sand is sand in the end
The Death of the Author is no big deal to an author
Out by the pond, a frog leaps even when no one walks by
The conference continues and the attendees
Exchange applause for inspiration
This is, by all reckoning, an economy less concerned
With making than with the made, the made
Being the dearly departed and on the shelf and so
Worthy, let’s be clear, of being purchased
But not of our attention, not today, this day
This god that loves you, and a god by the way
Is the last one and the least offended by the Death of God
We worry so much about offending a thing
That can take no blows, who is nothing but blow
But force, but this is the problem with lending a body
To the bodiless powers, which reminds me
I was wanting to tell you: If you believe a black crow
Follows you as you wind through the neighborhood streets
It probably, most definitely, is