Very peaceful, except,
There’s a faint moan

And of course, Philemon, who’s about to die
      laughing
At the sight of an ass eating figs.

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

And your death taught its debt
who escaped your life?

Your Death, dressed like the good Gray Poet
Still leaned over your shoulder

We had a candle ready and watched the lightning
Shred up from the landing field in the valley

Far, far away, men cut
The sea-wide, sea-green fields of cane.

I hobble past. Here’s a window onto a world of moonlit
Cubes and arches in ruins, populated by cats.

Focus a beam,
Emptied of thinking, outward through shut eyes
On X, your “god” of long ago.