It is hard to think of the people of Thebes
as being fortunate (so much time has gone by),
but they possessed a machine of exact measure:

For today at least the snow has gone
and the backyard is awash with daffodils.
See how the sun has come to court you? Quick,

there walked one Iraqi in a three-piece suit
who tried to express by his general indifference

What a life you’ve had! A face like a photo album,
a road map of good times. Its zigzagged lines
      resemble

What keeps it going? What does the body
enjoy? At the end it can hardly hear much,
taste much, see much, smell much and a lot

Little excavators, postage stamps
of living stone, you seek to save me
from the encroaching dust—scratch it away,

Lacrimae of the body, for whom do you weep?
What are your griefs, fears? Do you have a favorite
someplace whom violent motion makes you remember?

It could be like one of those dreams
where you must carry water in your hands
for half a mile to put some fire out

Shy defiers of the existential world,
you draw your veil across the unpleasant,
then the head turns away, the body turns away,