I'm going to end with a poem called
I Tell You These Things Because You Are Clearly in Pain.
Now there are a couple of quotations,
but I won't take the trouble to identify them.
I tell you these things because you are clearly in pain,
distances part themselves, ovaries, butchers.
The rinsings of silver pails paling in the tons of stretch,
stepped, empty baths.
Is endless, that death.
And up close, the awful piles of you, piles and pleats of you,
lying in the un-division.
Could we be with all our heart bearers of the unspeakable,
bearers of the dew?
Loose is the cloud blow that flows about you,
such work for the keel in you as you splash,
un-faced into the too close dark.
What has us, we give ourselves to joking, weeping.
We could hardly bear to part with a single, hush now.
The atomy sparks are humming.
Is it a lull, the lull of you?
Somebody's breath makes a little loving,
which is not as if fear life disappears at the mask curves,
nor as if you could taste up there the milk
swarms of the wild oars' glitter talk,
nor even as if the moon pitted mother should
show her face above a waste dotted far out
with little sails, most dead, slumped, and call to you
such happiness, seeing you all different there,
all it's at sea.
Thank you.