With only his dim lantern
To tell him where he is
And every time a mountain
Of fresh corpses to load up
Take them to the other side
Where there are plenty more
I’ d say by now he must be confused
As to which side is which
I’ d say it doesn’ t matter
No one complains he’ s got
Their pockets to go through
In one a crust of bread in another a sausage
How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death’ s laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death’ s supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
This strange thing must have crept
Right out of hell.
It resembles a bird’ s foot
Worn around the cannibal’ s neck.
As you hold it in your hand,
As you stab with it into a piece of meat,
It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird:
Its head which like your fist
Is large, bald, beakless, and blind.
They’ re waiting to be murdered,
Or evicted. Soon
They expect to have nothing to eat.
In the meantime, they sit.
A violent pain is coming, they think.
It will start in the heart
And climb into the mouth.
They’ ll be carried off in stretchers, howling.
Tonight they watch the window
Without exchanging a word.
It has rained, and now it looks
Like it’ s going to snow a little.
They explained to me the bloody bandages
On the floor in the maternity ward in Rochester, N. Y.,
Cured the backache I acquired bowing to my old master,
Made me stop putting thumbtacks round my bed.
They showed me an officer on horseback,
Waving a saber next to a burning farmhouse
And a barefoot woman in a nightgown,
Throwing stones after him and calling him Lucifer.
Your friend has died, with whom
You roamed the streets,
At all hours, talking philosophy.
So, today you went alone,
Stopping often to change places
With your imaginary companion,
And argue back against yourself
On the subject of appearances:
The world we see in our heads
And the world we see daily,
So difficult to tell apart
When grief and sorrow bow us over.
The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.
They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me,
And then didn’ t.
Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild
Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
More and more dark houses
Hushed and abandoned.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The thought of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
