TWO POEMS
PROUD
Call it a palfrey, this small horse;
The sweet pasture, that grass eaten to the roots;
Call those wind-punished fruit trees the shade;
The mud a brook; call them that and kill them.
You chanter bat-eyed with print, rotten
With euphemism, you can call the manure
In the rock-gnarled orchard what you want,
But someone is coming to see you some day
And when you stand there, your hand
On the cold knob of the open door, the pen
That murdered so many young bony horses, so many
Desperate orchards, behind your ear,
You won't call the black suit a robe
And cowl, you won't tell the gentleman
That his eyes are caves of forgetfulness. Slowly
It will all come back to you
And you will say no
The way everything else says no
When he steps back
And motions down the stairs.
