AD Harper

No mountains, great lakes, cliffs,

the sublime did not stop here on its
glacial journey north. I am a one trick
horse in a town of single horses, except
for the deceased who are led by two,
if the bereaved are crazy for a gesture.

I wasn't. I got a lift from the vicar,
not following the coffins but suburban
rat-runs to beat the traffic, and their ashes
won't be scattered anywhere majestic,
just planted in a hole the sexton will dig

in the grass, but if you've never seen
grass you will think it magnificent,
the spread and quiet ambition of it,
the tended squares like ermine trim,
sub-sublime, though when I die I want

a huge fuck-off stone angel peering
over a wall, watching the trains, the
romantic loneliness of witnessing
InterCitys and commuters, wings
frozen, the rain making tears in rain.

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AD Harper's work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Rattle and The Manchester Review, among others. He tweets as @harpertext.