Crypt

For us not now philosophers’ distress
so elegant and rectified,
a cri de coeur in fortified undress,
missing all the loss we find

as our former selves pass by,
thick with others’ thoughts and words.
Still, to say a true thing that will belie
our dark surmise that in this world

meaning is not in doing or what’s done–
wind shuddering the trees,
some turbulence, and then it’s gone.