by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Here is not so cold.
It is colder on Argyle Street,
where pedestrians are pedestrian,
where everything is.
Thank god for the Necropolis.

Glasgow Cathedral's windows
temporarily transparent,
the faces of the saints now absent,
as if they never existed.
We are all awash in monuments
not more than what they are.
Some say the sighs of mourners
are circulating still,
that spirits wait to leap from tombs.
But all of that is mere romance.

An eternal abacus
adds and subtracts everything,
everything we have held in our hands,
the darkest rain.

By back to front mysteries
we are paralyzed,
self-eliminating cryptograms,
how something which no longer exists
can still be happening!