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.

163

The water held within
My hands,
Until my hands made
Wings and
It fell but held itself
Until it hit
The earth and it broke
And then the
Air held, in the span
Of my cold
And empty white hands.

It had flown
For a space, where light
Held it in the
Coincidence of its song.

162

He stared long
Into the sky as it
Caged the earth,
Where the light flew
Into the dark.
He spoke in the hush.
Nothing was
Contained within its
Arc without station.

A god had leapt into it
And crashed in flames.

The far stars turned
As on an axletree.

161

He stared long
Into the grate as it
Caged the fire,
As the air drew it to
Its heart, so
To feed upon itself.
Nothing was
Contained within its
Form but light.

The flower
Leapt from its armour—

Light rose
In the ghost of its arms.

160

John came downstairs heavily
            As it was growing light and
                        Shut behind him the screen door
And went shivering out into
            The yard where nothing had yet
                        Moved and crossed barefoot
To the passage between the barn
            And the outer wall of the
                        House and with his arms shaking
And his gut coiled crossed
            To the outhouse, and closed
                        The half-hinged door behind him.
He unbuckled his belt with
            Slow cold hands and sat and
                        Recoiled at the seat on his
Skin and then he breathed
            In and then he commenced
                        To shit, and he breathed out.
He could hear doves calling
            Through the woods and the
                        Moan of low wind and the trees.
His bowels growled.
            When he went back up to
                        The house he would break into
A pan five eggs and grill
            Some toast and drink a cold
                        Glass of milk and swill it all
In his mouth grease and grit
            And curds and then wash his
                        Face outside in the frozen cistern.

159

Eliot sat in the space
            Of the part open barn doors
                        Where a corridor of light fell
Onto the dirt floor
            And back into the implements
                        And parts of combines that
Lay in dust and lightstarved
            Weeds. He was watching as
                        Swallows traced parallel paths
Through the width of air
            Over the gable end of the barn
                        And to the mass of the trees
Growing into the yard.
            They had a nest in the hollow
                        Of the roof and he watched
As they darted through the
            Outer air to scream into the
                        Dark above him where their
Young made noises like the
            Friction of minute axles.
                        He got up and walked in
The heavy air to the edge
            Of the trees. They were swarming
                        With particles of dust and the
Bright forms of mosquitos.
            After some minutes he went
                        Back inside the house and to
The dark of the kitchen and
            The tile was cold and cold
                        Blue light swam before his eyes.

158

I rode my bicycle through
            The back fields slowly
                        And smoked a cigarette
And watched the small birds
            Gather and lift as I
                        Ran them up from their
Ground under the stems
            Of wheat. They would start
                        Up at intervals and fall
Back into it further from me
            Like a tide was moving them.
                        Cinders fell from my smoke
Into the dark regimented
            Crop and sailed down
                        As their fuel ended and the
Air sucked them out of it.
            The cigarette was good.
                        It was an old bicycle
That had belonged to Eliot.
            The chain would catch
                        And the brakes were worn
And there was some rust,
            But it was a good bicycle.
                        I felt a little dizzy and
Stars were showing as it
            Came down and the sparks
                        Fell into the ranked wheat.
I could not tell my speed
            Or direction of if I was in motion
                        Because the stars were still.

157

We were following the track
            Through the woods behind
                        The wheatfields. I could
See the whiteness of her
            Dress in the blue dark
                        Dance like a candle as she
Skipped from the path to
            The trees and back and
                        Ran on ahead down it.
We were going up a
            Shallow incline, she kept on
                        Calling back to me my name,
And the wind would rise
            Over her voice and the trees
                        Rush down into it.
We were always to be back
            By dark, and it was
                        Already dark, and it was a
Long way back down
            Through the woods and
                        Across the fields and she
Was going too far ahead so
            I called for her to wait
                        But it was against the wind
And I don't know that
            She heard me. So I ran
                        Through the billowing trees
And when I reached her she
            Seemed to be half asleep.
                        White, under a dark beech.

156

There were white flowers
            Swaying outside the kitchen
                        Window in the cold air
When I came down
            From my bed. It had
                        Rained through the night but
Nothing was audible now
            But the grass sighing as it
                        Layed down in the wind.
The silent flowers before
            The empty grey sink were
                        Like a motion picture.
I came to the sink to
            Wash my face and then
                        I looked over my hands
And several cuts on the
            Knuckles, and I cracked them.
                        My father was asleep in his
Chair and the lamp at his
            Side was weak in the
                        Daylight where it fell on
His hands upturned in
            The pages of the newspaper.
                        There was a dried trail
Of saliva that made a contour
            Down his jaw and to his
                        Collar. I shook him awake.
What time is it?
            After seven. How is wheat?
                        It's fell. Help me up.

155

The wound became infected
            And in the end Hollis
                        Had to use the pneumatic
Stungun in the barn to
            Kill it, and we strung it
                        Up from the crossbeam.
Dead, its musculature
            Hung loose from the frame
                        Of its skeleton and it was
Possible to see the chamber
            Of its ribcage and the
                        Sinews of its underbelly
Like the undercarriage
            Of a motorcar or any other
                        Kind of outer chassis.
The eyes had glassed over
            And the jaw hung loose
                        And the tongue was white.
It was not long dead and
            Still hot enough that steam
                        Rose from it in the cold air.
Hollis smirked. He took a pole
            From the wall and gouged
                        At its abdomen. It swung
And the rope creaked and
            The beam and its shadow
                        Swung faintly on the wall.
I had bile in my throat and
            I wanted to knock Hollis down,
                        And had to hold myself back.