Two Boys

The boy drowned in the bog. Not a pretty sight.

Not a pretty end. And it no accident. And him

A stranger in town. Rank the berries in the bushes.

And mute the birds. Not like birds at all.

And afternoon come too soon, and then

Come no longer....What is the life of a man?

Or one not even a man? Has it the shape of a bird?

Or a dog? Or an insect dressed in robes of white

And robes of green? And if a life takes its own life?

If a man takes from himself a man? Or a bird

From a bird? Or a dog from a dog? What is

That like? Birds may fall faster than thought,

But a dog is no lamb, it will not easily strangle—

Greenness like fire will not swiftly stamp out....

The boy drowned in the bog. He came from

A long way off to lie down in such sickly water.

Not like water at all. Poor and brown. Not one

Fish in it, not one blind fish. There would

Have been a better time. Or place. Better.

But fate, what is it? Who met the boy

By daylight? And how did he know him? By

What seal on the forehead? Talon or star?

Who said, Thus far shall you come and no

Farther? This circle of beaten trees. This ring

Of dark water. Who raised the curtain?

Who prompted the action? Who conceived

It in the first place? What prophet in what

Dark room? Did he weep when he wrote

Down the words? Did he watch till the end,

Or did he leave that for others? And what

Did the flesh smell like when the prophecy

Was sealed? A burned flower? Or ripened fruit?

What sang in the trees before the boy

Lay down or after? A child? Or the light?

Or nothing. Just a bird. Nothing. And then

Night coming on. And morning coming after....

And so we have a story. But still the story

Does not end. Green the cress by the water.

Green the insect’s wing. Now the living boy

Finds the dead one. A gift for early rising.

A worm for the bird. The boy did not know

What he saw. He thought the dead boy

Must be something other. Flesh of a lily.

Or a fallen hat. He thought what he thought.

And then he thought no longer. The wind

At once loud in the trees. The birds loud.

The boy had wanted a brother. But this

Was not what he meant. Had he said

The wrong words? Did words have such power?

And then he saw what he saw, and he knew

From this day forward, for better or worse,

For worse or better, he would carry this shadow

Of no certain shape—now a lamb, now a bird,

Now a boy dressed as a woman—from here

To there, and there to here. Back to this bog

Or another. This wood or another. Berries

Bright or rank. Water foul or pure. Birds loud

In the trees. Or still. And softer than fleece,

Softer than grass, it already raining.