There is a big amount of death here. I feel
like maybe everyone in the world is dead. Something
is definitely dead in those grungy
trees, where perhaps, even if no one is there, they are dead.
You can tell the sky is dead by the way it sags on the tree’s roofs
like a dead starfish on a rock. That rocks are
dead is almost the first fact that ever happened,
and though mammals happened too, in smoke we still communicate with the dead
souls of rocks, and the souls of dead English wolves
that do not howl (because dead), but yet tread, plash in, and drink from the old
blood which dyes the infinitely deady earth.
Death himself, when he arrives, will look at this painting through his teeth
and enjoy its dying for a little while, but then get a little put out
by the closeness of the tallest branch to the top of the canvas, and walk on.
by Col. Baldwüllz