Sad News

Montreal poet Artie Gold has died. So long I've adored his poems, so gentle, so deliberate, so shy.
In memory of his chosen words, a poem of his from the collection The Beautiful Chemical Waltz, 1992.

untitled

hearts in their mouths discovered
they beat like small pianofortes
they scram to the ground headless

and heedless of their small
breakable limbs:       for this is death
the large claw extended up to

the highest bough climable:     it
is where they steal from, they load
six cherries not white absolutely

three in each small pocket and they
begin the descent all wrong:     like
a cat goes too hastily up the pole

of a telegraph, they run away from
the hand that threatens, by running
first towards it:     backwards like a cat

but they will not leap at the eyes
of that voice, they stand there
sensing a human punishment finally.

Artie Gold