And Here It Seems the Author Died

This plague year the weather has turned to match.

Thick black buboes mottle the sky, promising rain

but delivering the hot breath of the dying.

I, John Clynn, wait among the dead for death to come

and grill me on the coals of my body. The rats have fled

their tunnels, and died. The clergy have fled their flocks,

and died. We have forsaken God, and will die. Or God

has forsaken us, and is dead. The hills are cloaked

in pyre-smoke, and the smell of nosegays protects us

from the stench and the sickness. But I have buried men

so wrapped in flowers their heads were lion-maned.

Now they sleep with the lambs, all of them ripe mutton

for the masterless dogs who dine in the streets and die

happy, their bellies full to burst. The sky ripples

with lightning, but still no rain. My door is open to let in

what wants in, and let out what will out. Outside, a girl

is singing my name