The Leaves

    I can bless a death this human， this leaf

    the size of my hand. From the life-line spreads

    a sapped， distended jaundice

    toward the edges， still green.

    I've seen the sick starve out beyond

    the grip of their disease.

    They sleep for days， their stomachs gone，

    the bones in their hands

    seeming to rise to the hour

    that will receive them.

    Sometimes on their last evening， they sit up

    and ask for food，

    their faces bloodless， almost golden，

    they inquire about the future.

    One August I drove the back roads，

    the dust wheeling behind me.

    I wandered through the ruins of sharecrop farms

    and saw the weeds in the sun frames

    opening the floorboards.

    Once behind what must have been an outhouse

    the way wild yellow roses bunched and climbed

    the sweaty walls， I found a pile of letters，

    fire-scarred， urinous.

    All afternoon the sun brought the field to me.

    The insects hushed as I approached.

    I read how the world had failed who ever lived behind

    the page， behind the misquoted Bible verses，

    that awkward backhand trying to explain deliverance.

    The morning Keats left Guys Hospital's cadaver rooms

    for the last time， he said he was afraid.

    This was the future， this corning down a stairway

    under the elms' summer green，

    passing the barber shops along the avenue that still

    performed the surgeries， still dumped

    blood caught in sand from porcelain washtubs

    into the road-side sewer. From those windows，

    from a distance， he could have been anyone

    taking in the trees， mistaking the muse for this new

    warmth around his heart-the first symptom

    of his illness-that so swelled the look of things，

    it made leaves into poems， though he'd write later

    he had not grieved， not loved enough to claim them.