so there you go with a bold dot over the i.

dead goats don’t sweat in the sweet sky. they know:

there’s a future for them and for you when you fly,

in soaring there’s an end to the sorrow.

now, they know, the exhausted soil will send 

her daughter-son into the halo of black-earth furrows.

a grain of the pain will be sown into the land,

and the sow of neither-day-nor-night will farrow.

petty tears will drizzle over your freakin’ heaven.

that’s where the virgin seed will sprout in vain.

it’s from there now, my dear, that you’ll be observing

us down here, without haste or disdain. 

dead sheep and goats, and a couple of donkeys swim

parting subterranean waters at a measured pace.

it’s a pity you threw so many words to the wind

no hesiod could collect them if they left no trace.

none could have, not even with the help of a magic pike.

you could have, just like you annulled the old wisdom.

so there you go with a bold dot over the i,

as if you had left and closed the window.