The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who’s there?
Â€”Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side.
I smell your grief.
Â€”I sent my grief away. I cannot care
Forever. With them all align & again I died
And cried, and I have to live.
Â€”Now there you exaggerate, Sah. We hafta die.
That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.
Â€”Yes; that makes sense.
But what makes sense between, then? What if I
Roiling & babbling & braining, brood on why and
Just sat on the fence?
Â€”I doubts you did or do. De choice is lost.
Â€”It’s fool’s gold. But I go in for that.
The boy & the bear
Looked at each other. Man all is tossed
& lost with groin-wounds by the grand bulls, cat.
William Falukner’s where?
(Frost being still around.)