The Hour and What Is Dead

    Tonight my brother， in heavy boots， is walking

    through bare rooms over my head，

    opening and closing doors.

    What could he be looking for in an empty house？

    What could he possibly need there in heaven？

    Does he remember his earth， his birthplace set to torches？

    His love for me feels like spilled water

    running back to its vessel.

    At this hour， what is dead is restless

    and what is living is burning.

    Someone tell him he should sleep now.

    My father keeps a light on by our bed

    and readies for our journey.

    He mends ten holes in the knees

    of five pairs of boy's pants.

    His love for me is like sewing：

    various colors and too much thread，

    the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces

    clean through with each stroke of his hand.

    At this hour， what is dead is worried

    and what is living is fugitive.

    Someone tell him he should sleep now.

    God， that old furnace， keeps talking

    with his mouth of teeth，

    a beard stained at feasts， and his breath

    of gasoline， airplane， human ash.

    His love for me feels like fire，

    feels like doves， feels like river-water.

    At this hour， what is dead is helpless， kind

    and helpless. While the Lord lives.

    Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.

    I've had enough of his love

    that feels like burning and flight and running away.