WEBVTT

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I'm going to end
with a poem called

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I Tell You These Things Because
You Are Clearly in Pain.

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Now there are a
couple of quotations,

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but I won't take the
trouble to identify them.

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I tell you these things because
you are clearly in pain,

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distances part themselves,
ovaries, butchers.

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The rinsings of silver pails
paling in the tons of stretch,

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stepped, empty baths.

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Is endless, that death.

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And up close, the awful piles
of you, piles and pleats of you,

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lying in the un-division.

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Could we be with all our heart
bearers of the unspeakable,

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bearers of the dew?

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Loose is the cloud blow
that flows about you,

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such work for the keel
in you as you splash,

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un-faced into the
too close dark.

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What has us, we give
ourselves to joking, weeping.

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We could hardly bear to part
with a single, hush now.

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The atomy sparks are humming.

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Is it a lull, the lull of you?

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Somebody's breath
makes a little loving,

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which is not as if fear life
disappears at the mask curves,

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nor as if you could
taste up there the milk

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swarms of the wild
oars' glitter talk,

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nor even as if the moon
pitted mother should

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show her face above a
waste dotted far out

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with little sails, most dead,
slumped, and call to you

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such happiness, seeing
you all different there,

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all it's at sea.

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Thank you.

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