This poem has seven parts.
And they might be thought of this moment
in the course of a night spent alone
in a ruined house in the country in winter, moments from dusk
to dawn.
The poem is called "Another Night in the Ruins".
In the evening haze darkening on the hill,
purple of the eternal.
A lackbird crosses over, flock, flock,
adoring only the innocent.
Nine years ago, in a plane that rumbled all night
above the Atlantic, I could see lit up
by lightning bolt jumping out of it.
A thunder had formed like the face of my brother,
looking nostalgically down on blue lightning clash
the moment that the Atlantic.
He used to tell me, what good is the day.
And come hill of despair, the bonfire you candle
can light the great sky.
Though, it's true, of course, to make it burn,
you have to throw yourself in.
Wind pours itself hollow in the East of my ruined.
Ghost float as snow drifts that build out there in the dark.
Upside down ravines into which night trees are
torn wings are buried feathers.
I listen, I hear nothing.
Only the cow, the cow of nothingness,
moving down the bone.
Is that a whisper?
If grass is in the snow for a grain,
find this whip straight into flames,
plus crows flame bursting out of the ground.
How many nights must it take?
One take me to learn that we aren't after all made
from that bird which flies out of exactly.
But for a man as it goes up in flames is one worse
is to open himself to be the flame.
[APPLAUSE]