All the Beautiful Dead

A poem by Pete Hay

Advertisements

Published in ‘Physick’ (2016)

 

Down dark corridors

the beautiful dead

step from their rooms.

 

They watch me pass.

They would have me stay,

hear their imperative word.

 

Where there are tails,

tails bob like nodding-grass –

I do not know what they mean.

 

Those who stand erect plead

with eyes of portent,

of expectation.

 

Some venture a smile,

their smiles slight

and uncertain.

 

I do not know what it is they want.

I pass on by

and know this as failure.

 

Their eyes brush my back

with gentle, knowing

reproach.