A friend, just in a casual conversation
one night, told me that the definition of thanatopsis,
which I had always thought was the study of death,
is in fact--
dictionary definition is-- the study of last things.
I immediately thought what a great title
that would be for a poem.
And I ended up planning a book that I'm
working on now that's going to be called Studies
of Last and First Things.
It'll be my usual writing about death and oblivion, et cetera,
but also writing about some aspects of my own childhood.
There's a simple little poem that's
the first memory that I have simply
called, "The First Thing."
"You are lying in either a crib or cot
on the screened-in porch of your grandparents.
Arlington, Massachusetts, 1942.
The light outside makes a haze.
It almost hurts.
You will live in that house at Brooks Pond
after your parents' divorce, but you don't
have to think about anything.
A stiff legged fox just stepped out
of the shadows near the porch, cross the road,
and you've heard about foxes, heard of them."