I didn't know I was grateful for such late-autumn bent-up cornfields yellow in the after-harvest sun before the cold plow turns it all over into never. I didn't know I would enter this music that translates the world back into dirt fields that have always called to me as if I were a thing come from the dirt, like a tuber, or like a needful boy. End lonely days, I believe. End the exiled and unraveling strangeness.
Dead Man, Thinking
Snow geese in the light of morning sky,
exactly at the start of spring. I was
looking through the cracks of the blinds at my future which seemed
absent of parades, for which I was grateful,
and only yesterday
I watched what an April wind could do
to a body wrapped in silk,
though I turned my eyes away,
the way the teacher says,
once the beauty was revealed.
How long it takes to die, in the fifty-fifth year
is what I thought about today.
I told some truths so large, no one could bear to hear them.
I bow down to those who could not hear the truth.
They could not hear the truth because they were afraid
that it would open a veil into nothing.
I bow down to that nothing. I bow down to a single red planet
I saw in the other world’s sky,
as if towards some
I bow down to the red planet. I bow down
to the noisy birds, indigenous to this region.
Only sorrow can bend you in half
like you’ve seen on those whose loves have gone away.
I bow down to those loves.