There Is No Reason Why Not To Look at Death.
There is no reason why not to look at death.
A good poem also, is also death-contained.
I once pulled out all the business feathers of a crow.
He became better, godcomplete black.
Nothing makes barely looking haste to put away the dead--
except the dead involved--
in business.
The Earth, the seasons, the poets,
before they become poets, make no haste
to put away the dead, nor God.
The Lord giveth, and he taketh away, by and large,
slowly and without haste.
Crow-bombs are here.
Not my concern, nor ordinary bombs,
but plain decay, the proper autumnal
process subsequent to life.
Emphasis need not be placed upon the soul.
My point involves the leaf, as an example,
and the unplumaged crow.
Nor is my point one with flesh and no blood, but one of death.
I am fond of dead and/or the self-contained.
This poem may not be said to be about souls,
but of things, feathers and leaves, leafless trees
and the featherless bodies of crows.
Finally, let us say, I have been asked to write simply.
[APPLAUSE]