It was made of water, but not helpfully,
a stag walked inside. It was a voice
on the radio, a voiceover,
telling us about the technical difficulties
making the funeral hard to hear
at the moment when the great man’s death
became a family matter.
A stag became concealed
at the moment a car turned the corner.
It required the driver
to do more than pay attention.
One must be slow in advance
of what’s coming.
The funeral came back with music.
A song about what could last.
It stayed the same, hanging
around the house
like a lovesick teenager,
or a grownup with nothing to do,
or curtains, or sirens, anything
with duration that acts permanent.
