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Going

When the dead in your generation are still few,

as they go, they reach back; for a while

they fill the whole place with themselves,

rummaging about, inquisitive,

turning everybody on; bringing

their eyes behind yours to make you see things for them.

Now there are more, more every year,

sometimes a month packed full with them

passing through, first dulled, preoccupied, and then

taken quickly to silence. And they’re gone, that’s all.

from Selected PoemsFind more by Roy Fisher at the library

Copyright © Roy Fisher
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Roy Fisher

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