POETRY.


A PERFECT SUICIDE



And here I will sacrifice all rhyme,

that is, I will avoid any of the beautiful

consequences which may intrude on patterns

infinitely more inter-calculable — I shall

be in a world of egregious simplicity,

protected by a cold dependency.


Yet I bungled my own death,

kept alive for days trying to analyse

for friends and fellow-architects

why melancholy has a concave shape

and whether Heaven, ordered to design

a ceiling, would stand in its own light.


Seeing is beneath believing, which is why

air is stonier than its vista — as in my portrait

the set-squares and the compasses make Signs

of the Cross more Christian than the Cross

upon my breast and sleeve. The Pyramids

were told that weight was Incarnation.


Socrates died of a morphic sort of rictus,

Seneca in a steamy froth of blood,

I with a muddle of indignity and plans.

To kill oneself as perfectly as a line

will reach a tributary line

is masonry continuing in one stay.



BY PETER PORTER

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POETRY.

POETRY.

POETRY.