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Memorial
I would like to think the air of which I am a little composed
will stay long enough to fill the hollow spaces
in the air
on the first day after my own death:
I would cause a commotion in a few leaves
a schoolboy might take for a ghost.
I would kick these leaves with a vaporous foot
and skip this leaf all day long,
like winds down a hill do.
And it's me again
swelling a wheat field,
waking the cool grass.
Bio
My life is a Kansas,
flat as a wheat field,
and I really am an old whoreson,
collateral male descendant
of the prostitute to whom
Vincent van Gogh gave his ear.
We still treasure the memento out here;
It leans in a jar of formaldehyde
like a dream.
Gordon Moyer is a painter, poet, essayist, and
historian of science living in Tucson, Arizona. He has published
poetry in Blue Unicorn, The Baltimore Review, Potomac Review,
Babel, Xanadu, and many other literary journals. Some of
Moyer's scientific and mathematical articles have appeared in Sky and
Telescope, Scientific American, and Quantum. Currently,
Moyer is teaching himself tensor analysis and composing a book of
aphorisms.
e-mail: didusineptus@aol.com
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