The End Of Your Life

 First light. This misted field 
 is the world, that man 
 slipping the greased bolt 

back and forth, that man 
 tunneled with blood 
 the dark smudges of whose eyes 

call for sleep, calls 
 for quiet, and the woman 
 down your line, 

the woman who screamed the loudest, 
 will be quiet. 
 The rushes, the grassless shale, 

the dust, whiten like droppings. 
 One blue 
 grape hyacinth whistles 

in the thin and birdless air 
 without breath. 
 Ten minutes later 

a lost dog poked 
 for rabbits, the stones 
 slipped, a single blade 

of grass stiffened in sun; 
 where the wall 
 broke a twisted fig 

thrust its arms ahead 
 like a man 
 in full light blinded. 

In the full light the field 
 your eyes held 
 became grain by grain 

the slope of father mountain, 
 one stone of earth 
 set in the perfect blackness.

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