The Burial

    After I've goosed up the fire in the stove with Starter Logg

    so that it burns like fire on amphetamines； after it's imprisoned，

    screaming and thrashing， behind the stove door； after I've

    listened to the dead composers and watched the brown-plus-gray

    deer compose into Cubism the trees whose name I don't know

    （pine， I think）； after I've holed up in my loneliness staring

    at the young buck whose two new antlers are like a snail's

    stalked eyes and I've let this conceit lead me to the eyes-on-stems

    of the faces of Picasso and from there to my dead father； after I've

    chased the deer away （they were boring， streamlined machines

    for tearing up green things， deer are the cows-of-the-forest）；

    then I bend down over the sea of keys to write this poem

    about my father in his grave.

    It isn't easy. It's dark in my room， the door is closed，

    all around is creaking and sighing， as though I were in the hold

    of a big ship， as though I were in the dark sleep

    of a huge freighter toiling across the landscape of the waves

    taking me to my father with whom I have struggled

    like Jacob with the angel and who heaves off， one final time，

    the muddy counterpane of the earth and lies panting

    beside his grave like a large dog who has run a long way.

    This is as far as he goes. I stand at the very end

    of myself holding a shovel. The blade is long and cool；

    It is an instrument for organizing the world； the blade is

    drenched in shine， the air is alive along it， as air is alive

    on the windshield of a car. Beside me my father droops

    as though he were under anesthesia. He is so thin，

    and he doesn't have a coat. My left hand grows

    cool and sedate under the influence of his flesh.

    It hesitates and then……

    My father drops in like baggage into a hold.

    In his hands， written on my stationery， a note

    I thought of xeroxing： Dad， I will be with you，

    through the cold， dark， closed places you hated.

    I close the hinged lid， and above him I heap a

    firmament of dirt. The body alone， in the dark，

    in the cold， without a coat. I would not wish that on my

    greatest enemy. Which， in a sense， my father was.