And upstairs: rock stars, dictators,
complexly drawn women in armor,
the dead, the poor, and so and so—

For now labor must be done
by the poor from the planets of sleep,

Thus, a woman under the stars might have been you.

And day fades to mind: a purple
drugged on lush, sweet,
thick late summer.

This fact shamed, appalled, excited —
like some beautiful stranger one hunted when one was
      young,

though who would kick beauty in the teeth? (O bitter
      aftertaste!)

He taught what fathers teach,
but not the dew and if

Sheen on your hair on the back of your book
jacket. Intellect’s steel, perhaps I said.
My friend and teacher until we did not talk,

Afternoon’s hundreds under the Citicorp on the platform-
feverish underworld over the molten core of the world.

And your death taught its debt
who escaped your life?

O Life Life Life
I yelled to the mohel’s knife

Ultimate, white-haired
bandaged at the eyes like judgement
you lie at the hospital stainless faucets and the pipes