This hatchet hasn’t bitten
through a neck in twenty years.
When we raised poultry,
it was in weekly use,
& also had regular dates
with the bench grinder:
a grating hiss, & a bright
new smile would open
in century-old rust.
The back of the head flares
into a hammer,
lending heft & balance
to this almost-cross
& making it easy to hang
from a pair of nails.
In a museum in Pittsburgh
the news
touching us
too mad for madness
touching her child
they bury us
day and night
escape lies
in the ground
among other people
I harbor a war
in my music
an ordinary yes
can kill a child
seven businessmen rattle out
their seven thoughts
death giving them
what they please
a piece of hot salt beef
some brown bread and brandy
and we make little
but desire better
live only an hour
carry fire into our graves
in ignorance of the present
we copy it
for future use
and go gaze at the dead
I make a cake like an urn
and agree to be merry
my dread hardly suffering me
to speak
I wait
in bed all day
dressed
for burying
come to see me
and sing
sing
to ease my night
in hot weather lying
with only a sheet upon me
like a ghost
there is a strangeness
between hand and head
and I miss the body’s city
when I at last die
will I be friends with it
I dream of meeting my love
and she is dead
I dream a stone swelled
and turned into a gray bird
I dream the stairs go down
to the Ganges
and I become religious
and wail like a lost wind
the Lord is as strange
as the devil
and me
I am a happy man
I play
till night in the garden
and every minute
expect to die
flag too great to stir
like a new carcass
not used to any airs
foul or sweet
where a poor man put off
his traveling clothes
in what tree
was the body hung
last night
so very still
dice found in the dead man’s pocket
which my hand now shake
write out like a dagger
all my red ink