23

lawsey-dawsey, it’s the sixth
anniversary of my first death, and

I still identify the sweet with
reality, though oft haunted off to

the bulbous rounds and resonances of
the inner world cast out: but no,

really, I’m too scientific to think
“what is there” is really there:

really: I mean, I really hope I am:
I went down the road for a walk

already and found, as usual, some of
the reality not too sweet: a halo

of blueflies over the recent kill,
crows standing about like pallbearers

too stuffed with lunch to
pay attention: and the brook, the

wide brook, chipped by so many pools
and increments, was gone: no water:

not a trickle, just some lessened
holdings, and those holdings

silent: a sparrow
dipped his bill in one cup and

disturbed the whole sky: well, but
you know if one gets down into the

fine, there’s too damn much of everything:
but that’s how dry it is: how dry

is it, you say: well, it’s so dry
that whole trees are dying on the

campus, just dropping brown
leaves and browning out the rest:

but, oh, how sweet to think of
my students: they are young and

trying (and trying) and they are
nervous and not certain, but they

are doing PRETTY WELL: they may be
gone before I am gone, but I will

dream about them out among the walk-
ways, seeking shade or giving up all

the snow: they will flutter about
almost real like scarves

the wind’s wearing or like birds
pitching together for migration:

actually, the spirit which was never
anything goes: the rest stays here