With a Whimper, Not a Bang

 With a Whimper, Not a Bang

 

How chance the roses there do forever last?

But her foolish child sleeps guilty with the past,

and the light programme’s long waves hold fast

to farewells from around the dial, breathing out

breathing in hushabys in whispers, not shouts.  

 

How come the roses there that bloom do grow?

But her foolish child forever the last to know,

pushes and puzzles his stick at unreasonable ice

impenetrable with frosting, she snaps, she bites

and so long will come in dark flowers from light.

 

How casual his roses there won’t fade quick?

But her foolish child green tossed pale in seasick

on high rolling waters, holding out for hands

in reaching can’t murder love as she commands,

but must fade slow with a whimper, not a bang.