I'll just read a few more.
This poem is-- it's called "Death Canoe."
"Surprised by blood passing, a large clot for morning.
Surprised later on in the day by the ice cold commitment
to dispersal, in which I am drowning.
It's true a grave site wants and there's nothing to go back to.
And in this sense alone, I'm after something.
The pitch of a nameless stream where we dumped
pitted bones, a part of everybody's story,
and now a part of mine.
I saved a handful without knowing why.
And now I'm afraid, will they continue to decay?
Have I ill-treated them, left them like wine in the sun?
You know, I would drink it anyway,
the curdle, the pitted bones in fresh water.
After you slice up the greens, and the reds,
and all the fancy mushrooms, then we say grace and commence.
And after eating, we fall back on our pillows and talk
of times when the stars were insane,
children, messengers, dalliances of light
could be already dead light, and we, the dupes.
The dupes don't mind a good night to die,
a pitch black ride through the Indian countryside,
the driver slapping on and off his lights,
freezing the women with bundles along a road,
or a descent down a mountain in Spain,
straddling sangria, and Patricia,
and two wide dusty lanes.
But by morning, everything has changed.
And it's America, over and over and over again.
I pour the old wine down the drain,
hoping it hasn't lodged or scarred, before I become,
or before we become, or before more clots mark
the wetness of our days.
On Sunday, we napped.
We just dropped off, blown out by the bars of sun.
You were there, and I was there.
And I wasn't unhappy, and I wasn't scared.
And I want you to know I conducted a war for this, a war
to lose my life.
And I lost it.
I lost it.
I reduced it to a death canoe, and it still came out as life."