The Vivid Building Charles
Never Saw
The church that had a meaning now is lost
In death. That strongly blue and gold-starred dome,
Elaborately slated and gold-crossed,
Says nothing about my man’s final home,
His ashes in a garden dug in north
Virginia. It’s supposed to be a place
Of spirituality. It’s not worth
The person. Anyone who kissed his face
Knows gardens, earth and ashes are obscene,
And everyone who kissed his lips and flung
Themselves towards drug-like love (and kissed the sheen
Of spit there) worships memory of his tongue.
His flesh gave meaning that the soul can’t give
And in that slippery memory he can live.