starched linen right when
it’s not so stiff
piece of paper twisting
in a breeze
sheet of metal
a thin sheet
its sound waves
emerging at the quiet snap
of bending this way
and then that
Bowie’s voice
in “Where Are We Now”
quavery
elegant
sad
exactly how we ought to speak
to the dead, were we to speak
to the dead, were we dead,
were we out walking the dead.
_____
Gracious I love that new album. And, for those of you landing here after Googling “walking he dead meaning” in oh, so many languages–I take it to mean being nostalgic for what is gone, so nostalgic so often that our nostalgia has become banal, and yet heartbreaking and urgent at the same time.
marniere 