the railroad meets the sea,
you have stepped over the barrier.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
you will understand afterwards.
Where the railroad meets the sea,
where the railroad meets the sea—
I know only that our paths lie together,
and you cannot endure if you remain alone.
The Indian Undertaker
There is a man carrying an armload of lilacs
across the field: he may be a lost Indian
as he is whistling, very beautifully, a tune
to the birds I have never heard. I am in back
of him, following at a distance. Three small quail,
perhaps hypnotized, rise and circle his head.
I want to stop the man and ask him what he said
to make them feel so safe, but I feel
weak and dizzy. His whistling begins to chill
my neck, as if the wind from his lips were
rushing round me. If only I were agile
like this family of field mice heading for
the river; still, I am not sorry I came here.
A lilac is falling like a piece of sky
from his arms; it seems to take ten minutes or more.
Finally it kisses the wet earth. I
start running—the lilac is waiting for me.
Here you are! I feel the first emotions of love.
And, look, a snail is holding on to your leaf
for all he’s worth. So slowly he moves,
humming a psalm to the god of snails.
The lilac swoons. The ground is sapphire
and the trees are topaz. I feel as if I were
attending my own funeral, the air a jail
of music and cool yellow fire.
The Initiation
The long wake continues,
quiet and moronic expressions.
The jowl of the dead
is agape with infinite abandon
as if he were about to sing:
if we concentrate
he may remember the words.
In comes a man with a dog
on a chain; then several others.
The room is bathed
in plaster of paris.
In the background
a deep, abundant fugue has begun.
The piece is dedicated
to me. How strange,
I thought I was new here.
They stop playing,
file quickly into another room.
As I begin to leave
shafts of darkness reach out
and close the little door.
Consumed
Why should you believe in magic,
pretend an interest in astrology
or the tarot? Truth is, you are
free, and what might happen to you
today, nobody knows. And your
personality may undergo a radical
transformation in the next half
hour. So it goes. You are consumed
by your faith in justice, your
hope for a better day, the rightness
of fate, the dreams, the lies
the taunts—Nobody gets what he
wants. A dark star passes through
you on your way home from
the grocery: never again are you
the same—an experience which is
impossible to forget, impossible
to share. The longing to be pure
is over. You are the stranger
who gets stranger by the hour.
Shadowboxing
Sometimes you almost get a punch in.
Then you may go for days without even seeing him,
or his presence may become a comfort
for a while.
He says: I saw you scrambling last night
on your knees and hands.
He says: How come you always want to be
something else, how come you never take your life
seriously?
And you say: Shut up! Isn’t it enough
I say I love you, I give you everything!
He moves across the room with his hand
on his chin, and says: How great you are!
Come here, let me touch you, you say.
He comes closer. Come close, you say.
He comes closer. Then. Whack! And
you start again, moving around and around
the room, the room
