Les morts C’est sous terre; Ça n’en sort Guère.
UE Our diaries squatted, toad-like, On dark closet ledges. Forget-me-not and thistle Decalcomaned the pages. But where, where are they now, All the sad squalors Of those between-wars parlors?— Cut flowers; and the sunlight spilt like soda On torporous rugs; the photo Albums all outspread ... The dead Don’t get around much anymore. There was an hour when daughters Practiced arpeggios; Their mothers, awkward and proud, Would listen, smoothing their hose— Sundays, half-past five! Do you recall How the sun used to loll,
Lazily, just beyond the roof, Bloodshot and aloof? We thought it would never set. The dead don’t get Around much anymore. Eternity resembles One long Sunday afternoon. No traffic passes; the cigar smoke Curls in a blue cocoon. Children, have you nothing For our cold sakes? No tea?
No little tea cakes?
Sometimes now the rains disturb Even our remote suburb. There’s a dampness underground. The dead don’t get around Much anymore.
