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Poem	In sleep when an old man's body is no longer aware of his boundaries, and lies flattened by gravity like a mere of wax in its bed . . . It drips down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a cheek . . . Under the back door into the silver meadow, like a pool of sperm, frosty under the moon, as if in his first nature, boneless and absurd. The moon lifts him up into its white field, a cloud shaped like an old man, porous with stars. He floats through high dark branches, a corpse tangled in a tree on a river.
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