Thoughts of a Solitary Farmhouse

And not to feel bad about dying. 
Not to take it so personally—

it is only
the force we exert all our lives

to exclude death from our thoughts 
that confronts us, when it does arrive,

as the horror of being excluded— . . .
something like that, the Canadian wind

coming in off Lake Erie
rattling the windows, horizontal snow

appearing out of nowhere
across the black highway and fields like billions of white bees.

 

(Franz Wright, of course…)

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