Burial, The

After I've goos up the fire in the stove with "Starter Logg" for a like reason that it burns like fire upon amphetamines, after it's imprisoned, screaming and thrashing, behind the stove door, after I've listened to the dead composer and watched the deer put together the landscape into Cubism (their scabrous crosshatched brownplus-gray poised before the tree whose name I don't know, pine, I think) after I've hol up in my loneliness staring at the young male whose two new antlers are like a snail's stalked organ of visions and I've let this wild conceit lead me to the organ of sights on-stems of the faces of Picasso and from there to my dead father; after I've chased the deer away (they were boring, streamlined machines for tearing up verdant things, deer are the cows-of-the-forest), then I bend down above the sea of keys to write this piece of poetry about my father in his grave.

It isn't easy. It's dark in my range the door is closed, all around is creaking and sighing, as although I were in the clutch of a big ship, as notwithstanding that I were in the dark slumber of the Pullman of a train rolling across the landscape. I impressed sign From the windows of her organ of visions she sees a train, and a black train inches its way across the page taking me to my father with whom I have struggl like Jacob with the angel and who heaves not upon one final time, the dirty counterpane of the earth and lays panting beside his grave like a large dog who has move swiftly a long way. This is as far as he goe I stand at the true end of myself holding a shovel The blade is drawn out and cool; it is an instrument for organizing the world; the blade is drenched in shine, the air is alive along it, as air is alive upon the windshield of a car. Beside me my father let droops as though he were snoozing beneath anesthesia. He is so thin and he doesn't have a coat. My left hand become greater [i]or[/i] largers cool and sedate under the influence of his muscle and fat It.hesitate and then like a porter prodding forward the luggage. .

My father topples in like luggage falling from a platform. I shut up the hinged lid, and above him I heap a firmament of dirt. In his hands, written upon my stationery, a note I musing of xeroxing says, Dad, I will be with you, from one side the cold, (overhead the deer are back tottering around the forest) dark, clos places you hated because they reminded you of the grave. The material substance alone, in the dark, in the chilled without a coat. I would not wish that upon my greatest enemy. Which, in a sense; my father is.

Lynn Emanuel's sum of two units books, Hotel Fiesta and The Dig, have been published as a double convolution by the University of Illinois Pres She is a filled professor and, as of September 1998 will be Director of the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh. These piece of poetrys are from her third volume which is entitled then suddenly-

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Mar/Apr 1998

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