no one is sorry I am leaving,
not even I;
but there should be a minstrel
or at least a pint of wine.

(it bothers the young most, I think:
unviolent death is a thing of gradations—
still it makes any man dream;
you wish for an old sailing ship,
the white salt-crusted sail
and the sea shaking out hints of immortality—

sea in the nose
sea in the hair
sea in the marrow, in the eyes
and yes, there in the chest where the sides
are shallowing down—
or the love of a woman or music or food
or the gambol of the great mad muscled numbered
horse, kicking clods and destinies
high and away
in just one moment of sun coming down,
and winning)

but now it's my turn
and there's no majesty in it
because there was no majesty
before it
and each of us, like worms bitten
out of apples,
deserve no reprieve.

Death enters my mouth
and shakes along my teeth
and I wet the bed
and wonder if I am frightened
or if my bladder is slack . . .
a voiceless, unsorrowful dying
like the drying of a rose,

(and they will tuck each other to sleep
in turn
until, at last, a great wash
without a wail
will turn out the terrible light.)

there are no violins, there is no blood;
it is strange: a thing of no importance,
and all the insects I have crushed
march down against me—

Hannah, HANNAH!, hold my hand!

© Frank Silvanski