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Daryl Hine

 

199

Pain, in the nature of experience,
Remained today the same as every day,
Much as I wished that it would go away,
Make or take or fake its departure hence,
Seeing that its presence made no sense
Since ultimately it had nothing left to say.
Denied, deplored, but yet besought & beckoned,
Death will look like the last & least of accidents.
Who would ask such an unwelcome guest to stay
When its persistence must be reckoned by the second?

 

from &, A Serial Poem, Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 2010