Two Views Of A Cadaver Room

 (1)

The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung.
 A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.

The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of skull plates and old leather.

A sallow piece of string held it together.


In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.

He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.


 (2)

In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Finger a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.

These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long.


Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

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