Come, fool, and tell me of your successes
just here where the wind combs the grasses
by this cemetery with its wooden crosses.
Come, gold-buttoned fool, with your new car
shining like a crab: walk over
this ancestral ground with its white flowers,
and talk in your loud voice of your gains,
your Midas jacket. Do you not feel the presence
of the empty-mouthed dead, and the dance
of the extinct girls.
Come, glassy fool,
stand by this stone and see your own name
excised as in your schooldays, an address
from your poor cottage to the universe
and then to your Mercedes and your hearse.