WEBVTT

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Carry on this last
poem, it's called

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Thinking of Death and Dog Food.

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You may have seen it
already under the title

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address to an old horse,
which was not my idea,

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so I'm changing the
title back to what I had.

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Chanterelles are a
wild mushroom that

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are very desirable
and choice, and come

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in the woods in late July
and all through August

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and into September.

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And it's Amanda again,
thinking of death and dog food.

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Amanda you'll be going to Aleppo
or to gains when you run out

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of luck

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The flesh flames from your
bones, your mammoth rib cage

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rowing away to the renderers,
a dry canoe on a truck

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While I foresee my
corpse slid feet first

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into fire light as
the baker's loaf

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to make of me at least
a pint of potash spore

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I'm something to sweeten the
crops when the clock hand stops

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Amanda us in the
woods miles from home

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the ground up ending
in yellow flutes

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that open, but make no sound

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Ferns in the mouth of
the brut, chanterelles

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in the woman's sack

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What do I want for myself?

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Dead center, bare back on the
intricate harp of your spine

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All that I name as mine with
the sure slow oxen of words,

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feed sacks as grainy as
boards that air in the sun

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A boy who is wearing
my mother's eyes

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Garlic to crush in the pan

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The family gathering in
already in the marsh,

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the yearling maples
bleed are rich on rush

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Time slips another abacus bead

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Let it not stick in the throat
or rattle a pain in the mind

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May I leave no notes behind
wishful, banal or occult

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And you small thinker in
the immensity of your frame

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may you be caught and
crammed mid mouthful

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of the best grain when the
slaughters bullet slams

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sidelong into your brain

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Thank you all.

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[APPLAUSE]

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