Yes, you are going to die,
but you're here now, and so am I,
proud of a beauty that passes,
each in our separate vases.
When you died and, they say, went to heaven,
you left behind a stunning argument
there is no justice, and grace is hard;
for the grave opens like the Tunnel of Love
into darkness, with the exit too far to see.
You are you and I am you
and we are also you.
When you are I and we are here
all differences will disappear,
like words a mynah bird repeats
or houses on suburban streets,
redrawn by what the pod erases –
one person, wearing different faces.
If you have any comments on these poems, Ed Shacklee would be
pleased to hear from you.