Article: The Dead.(Poem)

 
THE DEAD 
 
   They stroll in a field with no bounds 
   or rein, their traceless steps 
   in luxuriant grass. There are no harps 
 
   or wings, no cauldrons or flames. 
   Each guest rises equal from a bed 
   of reeds. One leans his back on a tree, 
 
   luminous cloak against counterfeit bark. 
   Another lounges in the perpetual breeze, 
   arm outstretched, as if trailing his fingers, 
 
   adrift at sea. Somewhere behind 
   they relinquished their pasts. 
   The boy climbing from bough 
 
   to bough couldn't say from where 
   he ...

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