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This Is Not an Auto-Elegy[1]

I am in Mourning for my Life[2]

Alive with the Qualifications of the Dead[3]

The Deadest thing Alive enough to have Strength to Die[4]

Ankles are No Match for my Body’s Insistence of becoming Earth again[5]

We are Dying, we are Dying, we are All of us Dying – All we can do is be Willing to Die[6]

Death who Takes what man would Keep Leaves what man would Lose[7]

Please Don’t Call us Dead – Call us Alive Someplace Better[8]

The Life began to Seep out of me and into the Ground[9]

This is Mortality ­– This is Eternity[10]

[1] W.S. Graham, An Entertainment for W.S. Graham for Him Having Reached Sixty-Five

[2] Anton Chekhov tr. Constance Garnett, The Sea-Gull

[3] Edgar Allan Poe, Loss of Breath

[4] Thomas Hardy,Neutral Tones

[5] Franny Choi, Perihelion: A History of Touch

[6] D.H. Lawrence, The Ship of Death

[7] William Butler Yeats, John Kinsella’s Lament for Mrs. Mary Moore

[8] Danez Smith, Summer, Somewhere

[9] Ken Chen, You May Visit the Cosmos, but You May Not Speak of It (or on the Tackiness of Elegy)

[10] Marianne Moore, What are Years?

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