Night Watch
“Don’t worry, I will return,” were not his dying words.
He had no dying words.
There was no pretense, no implosion.
11:00 p.m.
He was quiet, remote, dying,
sheer as a curtain.
The body is a big dumb object, he taught us.
Death is a genius.
“Do you understand?” he did not say.
11:05 p.m.
Still no protest.
Around him we were
a collective
for which there existed no name.
Vortex?
Hive? Enigma?
Astrophysicists were asking
for suggestions.
Terror. A terror of black holes,
someone proposed.
Yes, that was true.
Silence. A silence of black holes,
someone proposed.
That too was accurate.
What is metaphor?
What is metaphor for?
For you, my father,
genius in a big dumb object.
For when the curtains shivered
and we saw you enter the vortex
of world peace,
with its hive of enigmas.
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