FAREWELL CONCERT
(with excerpts from Brihadaranyaka Upanishad)

A woman on the eleventh
floor plunged to her 
death Saturday, I heard 
the sirens. She never screamed.

When he comes to weakness--

The explosion, when I sleep, repeats 
and repeats, the body at rest
I see once, color splashed,
an artist out of control.

--whether he come to weakness
through old age or through disease--
this person frees himself from these limbs
just as a mango, or a fig, or a berry
releases itself from its bond;

Earlier in the week, dressed in slippers
and robe, hair uncombed, the performer walked
her miniature dog in the street. Some say 
she fell.

..and he hastens again, according
to the entrance and place of origin,
back to life.

Monday I go to the office, teeth on edge,
the noise, the blood, the spilled brains
still with me. And what is it can be said?

..As noblemen, policemen, chariot-drivers, 
village-heads wait with food, drink,
and lodgings for a king who is coming, 
and cry: 'Here he comes! Here he comes!'

The obituary tells about the choreographer 
who last year, her eightieth year, danced 
what she called a farewell concert, 
having survived what seventy-four 
relatives did not: the Nazis.

..so indeed do all things wait
for him who has this knowledge
and cry: 'Here is the Imperishable
coming! Here is the Imperishable coming!'

My head bursts with unfinished
work I must complete. How 
in the name of the Limitless, 
will I celebrate this life?

A CONTEMPORARY 
DECAMERON

A bee visits my window at Castello
di Montegufoni where we have left
world politics and killing
plagues behind.  
                From her buzz
I learn the tales of the family
who sneaks out, under the full
moon, beaming; who weeps
into unwritten pages; who
parries in the grotto 
with the stone frog, 
that creature sporting
sword.
        What I know is the lion 
and his lioness guard 
the front gate.  The lovers
are safe.
          The bee
dizzy from winding
staircases and ceiling 
frescoes of angels, swoons 
still tasting the sweetness
of purple grapes.  
                   Even the lemons
and olives are nectar.  October, she says,
both elated and mournful.
                          Harvest
and celebrate!  Try to believe
what is here.