The paddocks are now empty of wind and all
And I am half-sick of shadows, too.
You are lucky not to be afraid of dying, not of dying
Itself but of its
Way, how much it may hurt
Like the lugubrious
Hundred cellos bowing, burning
In the caesarean ward some nights.
In the split-risk ward, the weird fate
Of what remains
To be sent home is merely anatomical, but stained
Anonymous, as in an earlier world
Please deliver us this
Leaflet in a land hospitable to coveting, and pain.