164

The winter before Eliot died
            There were long evenings
                        When the farm would shut
Down early and we would sit
            After dinner in silence and then
                        Everyone went up to bed
Early and the fire would
            Burn down in the grate
                        And I would go up the stairs,
Through the unlit upper hall
            And to my room and sit under
                        The lamp reading my almanac.
The shadow of my head
            Over the pages and I would
                        Have to turn to face it and
Read under it like an icon
            In its bracket on the wall.
                        I heard the house settling
And my pa snoring like
            A rhinoceros and the wind,
                        Each of those early nights.
I would stop reading and
            Stare out beyond my reach
                        Into the unlighted, unhoused
Spaces before me and sometimes
            Hear Eliot through the wall
                        Shift on the frame of his bed,
And I knew that something
            Would happen, but I didn't know then
                        What it was because I was young.