Everyone we love is dead and we too are rotting
When the afternoons of fall walk us to the road,
Sweep up our battered skulls and gurgled hearts
And shove our twisted limbs —
And we don’t protest because everyone we love is dead.
At the bridge, we might pause:
But Autumn only says one thing—
The argument that “It’s sunny somewhere.”
But we will never see or love again
And we know that, but everyone we love is —
And so we go on.