He changes into a bird, and that’s
the only difference. Rain
on the improved sidewalk seems
inspired after so much heat.
Look at the objects
that have already wilted and died.
Someone is losing hair trying
to penetrate the meaning of death—rather
language which postpones dying
is inventing a drug to keep us alive.
Being similar never made this body more true. Bills
for electricity and answering
service are burning inside the hearth.
My dream, to have a hearth and
set an example for fading
youth. The conspicuous peacock
neither turns nor changes,
yet suddently loses its feathers, buckles
in the dust and dies. The
meaning is as fantastic as any truth. Language
invents a painkilling drug for restoring youth—an
occasion inviting feelings which
jolt and never subside. I mean
he is dying again, slowly, as he gains time.