Death to Barthes

the young die hard and violently
to the song of the moose.

time is not what separates us
intellect is. smoke the last thing
seen before the moon opens her eye.

the mending of the chasm is left
to doctors who understand nothing
of the rising tide of misprision.

a heart stops beating because the author dies,
the sound of sirens faded into oblivion.

Lorelei doesn’t dance anymore,
the echo of waves against her breast
is the last trace of an obsolete sun.