You saw the tests
(but not the grade of the land) fall from grace
only to be raised like the grass you were raised on.
A season changes. No more armored cars frolicking
around banks, grocers, ISPs. The curtains are drawn
to accommodate what they and we dusted away.
And we who create with vigor on glass
like machines making change, we who read and forget,
are aware that the checks are separate, that what we dropped
Who believed we forgot because we didn't stop for a light,
say all is improvised. Through the din, the sweet pink
hips are adorned tonight. But laughing
makes us convenient, folds us
in purchased comfort, too mixed and flacid: don't
stare down the list of warnings,
but is insight on the loose?
The night's final orders have been placed, the metal detects you.
Now the failure is hemmed in,
or hauled out; others say no dice
but it rings false. The foyer, the orchard preempted—
I'm timid in song for you, and the drowsy stems
arranged for this line have asked to leave:
hopeful, a hand to wave.
It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories,
his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the
worst, and so grow gently old all down the unchanging days and die one
day like any other day, only shorter.
-- Samuel Beckett, "Malone Dies"
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