Carcosa
Carcosa, city sorrow-tossed,
the glory once and always lost,
in dreadful gray and dying dusk
sends up half-towers like a husk,
and here, where elsewhere gardens grow,
the trees are rotting with a glow
like ghostly phantoms dripping fear;
the grave alone can blossom here.
And all the graves there ever be
Carcossa holds like waves on sea,
including yours, which sadly states
your name and those two burning dates,
and no one walks here save the mad,
in rhythms echoing and sad,
and those who come here fade like frost,
all but these tombstones ever-lost,
for in Carcosa, far away,
and yet too near, the sunsets stay,
and time without a future sighs,
reflecting on the past that dies.
Extreme Unction
Reminiscent,
as with some ancient memory,
but of what is above
as well as what is behind,
a recollection of serenity,
too often lost,
yet always there,
descends with soothing scent,
a holy and confirming scent;
the flesh pants like a hart,
yearning for living water,
yearning to love,
with kiss on crucifix.
The heart is sick in God's presence,
sickness a distance from God,
a distance as upon a cross,
an aching distance,
a burning gap,
a purifying as if by fire.
Upon the head which knows,
upon the hands which do,
upon the body and its means,
the Spirit is given,
the oil is given,
and like the penitent thief,
stealing into paradise,
the soul shares the Passion
(its mortality the Passion),
and the spirit overflows,
redounding in splendid glory,
that the body be made
sign
of its own resurrection,
the beginning of resurrection.
