DEATH POEM ONE

Michael McClure

DEATH IS COMPRISED OF DEEP BLUE TORTURES
and filled with dark chocolate cake.
Birth has gone with the losses
of endless imagination.
A round brown leaf whirls at the tip
of a spider thread.

I
n

l
a
t
e

Winter
I will study
the whiteness of plum blossoms
and look for knots in an old trunk
at the edge of the forest fire
near some deer bones.

Today marks the first anniversary of the passing of the great American Beat poet Michael McClure.