Death

He's dead
the dog won't have to
sleep on his potatoes
any more to keep them
from freezing

he's dead
the old bastard–
He's a bastard because

there's nothing
legitimate in him any
more
he's dead
He's sick-dead

he's
a godforsaken curio
without
any breath in it

He's nothing at all
he's dead
shrunken up to skin

Put his head on
one chair and his
feet on another and
he'll lie there
like an acrobat–

Love's beaten. He
beat it. That's why
he's insufferable–
because
he's here needing a
shave and making love
an inside howl
of anguish and defeat–

He's come out of the man
and he's let
the man
go–
the liar

Dead
his eyes
rolled up out of
the light –a mockery

which
love cannot touch–

just bury it
and hide its face
for shame.



William Carlos Williams