Someone who dies in a vision

someone who dies in a vision  is like a poet who dies in a poem
summer enters your tower and ascends
you contemplate like a god, rave like a god
number flocks of swans obsessively per millennium  amend
the moon  that order bleeding from thin dark claws
puts a rat through its paces with ingenuity
you grow weary of it all  even for the wise, dying is still death
but writing  that twice-lost stony art
reeks of rot as it gnaws your flesh
you leap into the flames again  like a work discarded

so  we die in you
the only inheritance a marble chair
your seat amid the keening of the blind
one man’s feet  trampling innocent grapes

a vision  you said  that is to imitate ghosts in order to live
to make inquiries  like an old beggar
corpsed on the street  mourned by the incarnadine teeth of savage cats
but a rose smelted out of a poem, now  that shock will always cause wonder