Gravity killed Kurt Vonnegut.
At least that’s how I heard it
as I drove in my car.
Complications from a fall, they said.
From a fall.
Not illness.
Not old age.
His own body hitting earth
did him in.
Despite plane crashes
and slips from rocky cliffs
I’d never thought
of gravity as a murderer.
What grounds me can kill me.
When I next lose my footing
I will think of Kurt Vonnegut
and the simplicity of his farewell.
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7 comments:
beautifully written.
Well said. And aren't we glad he left so many of his words with us before he finally left in such an odd, simplistic way?
you know, i was in his brownstone in NYC once. his wife's photographs all over the walls and his books stacked up everywhere.
he wasn't there at the time (no, i didn't break and enter) so it was a bit weird, but still...wow.
Nicely done. He was one of my faves.
The skull is a delicate organ.
I must admit, having just been out of the country, I think I missed this. Great poem, great title.
He was one of my heroes. Sigh.
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