In the moment of death
can I climb through the bright rectangle
into the resurrection

Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air—
an armful of white blossoms

Damn it Graw you’ve got the sponge
on the wrong side of the ketchup bottle.
Have not shithead. And thus we drift

Out of the twilight a small voice
hisses shut up, just shut the fuck up.

Steam in the pipes.
Birdsong muted.
A prowl of cat.

“I seen it lots of times, I seen it, just from being on the street when something was going down, I seen kids get killed, a few, my buddy Jules got bucked, this gang he was down with, I mean he wasn’t even down with them when they started beefin with this other gang, but one day, it was hot, I remember it was real hot, 

I found it, slack
and powerless and belly-up.
How came it to be there?

         Whatever is expressive 
about clumsiness (bad knees), 
        disproportion (potbelly, 

Not the abrupt way, frozen
In the one glance of a painter’s frame,
Christ in the doorway pointing, Matthew’s face

He writes his memoirs. He is trying to explain the place of the hero in a system of necessities, to reconcile the notions of existence and fate that contradict one another.