In Memoriam

Richard Outram

One Richard Outram froze to death.
He chose that end, from evidence.
Fitting, perhaps, that that last breath
Should seep unseen as heat's lost dance.

For fate, he feared, his one true love
Already stared on streets of Hell.
Fitting his blood refuse to move
That hadn't seen its path as well.

Oh, he'd gone down, he had gone down
And stood before the throne of jet.
He'd taken bottle and her gown
To dress the nakedness he'd met.

He'd taken all his strength and sight
And nearer he got to the deep
The fuller sang the longing. Fright
So vast, dear reader, wake your sleep.

Wayne Clifford
January, 2005