Why now when I feel so much
Life, am I haunted by the dead?
Not the dead I know or knew
But odd characters from such
Stories as Kafka's stark stews
Or films in which, say, rye bread
Is served up as a last lunch
To a grieving family
By a dark haired baker
With a fakir's demeanor.
Or another film in which
A goat-footed old scholar,
Who shares a birthday with me,
Goes down, eased off by his rich,
But now deeply feeling, son.
He, reveling in his sins,
Even sets out to the end
Loaded up with heroin
Amid lovers and good friends.
Even a smart film gives in
As cliched clouds mask the sun
And tasteful but still corny
Music rises and new lives start
Their bumbling bend toward that
Mystery we all find thorny.
No last hat that would crown me
Should seem silly or fall flat;
The end, like love, is too tart
To be held off by the sweet
Consolations, empty tries
At putting our fears to rest.
What dark matter will arrest
Our joy in the end -- defeat,
The last scene before our eyes
Close on another kind of rest?
In the planetarium,
Our eyes become accustomed
To the lack of light, old skull,
Old orb, the old black cracked bowl,
The old cup pouring out cold
Where points of colored light rim
The room as the sun goes dim.
Being here in the domed dark
Is one part of the wonder:
Getting close to the sky's arc
Brings us close across the room
And takes out the world's bright
Nightly growl against the gloom,
Gives news of what was once here.