Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them- selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Pristine the ash                                   no one has touched yet

before wind sweeps it along                         across the altar

                         dusting chrysanthemum and bees

before it is swept off again                

                                                              the way the body burns

            part by part

particle by particulate

                                                              particularly diverging

                                                              its tiny cinders

                        of moth wings.

After sound                                        there is no sound

                                                              a wolf sanctuary

           void of howling

                        headlights on the winding road

picking up snow

                                     a tuft falling on the heron

                         as her wingtips dip into water.

Evolution:    

                         bat wing

                         whale fin

                         my hand shielding myself from light

as I adjust

                                                              frames along the wall

barefoot on the black bookcase

                                     the heat of my footprint

             disappearing though no hand wipes it.

In taking inventory of what’s left

                         what the dead have cleared in space

             a question

                                      like the body of a boy

curled inside his dog’s bed

                                      a boy filling his own rice bowl

                                      until he doesn’t want to

anymore.

                        I want to be beside him in the dark

to hear his voice again

                                      to stop seeing him on the street

                         in the back row         

                                      of a classroom where I teach.

            Is there no end to this need

mushrooms inching along

                         blades of grass after a field of rain

                                                             the heron fishing

wings spread to lure prey into her shade.

In war they say We’re not the top species because we’re nice

In life I say Let me come closer

                                      even if it kills me.