Classic Poem

A woman sketching, a man steeped in gin—

Note how the final scene assembling

In the rain shadow of a mountain range

Ablaze from ridge to ridge carries no hint

Of the catastrophe: the smoke, the wind.

o

Nor do the daily rushes, catalogued

For a committee of historians

Attempting to discern the exact moment

Of the republic’s death, contain instructions

For the executor of the estate—

o

The editor, that is, who was unwisely

Sacked on the second day of shooting, then hired

By the film maker’s estranged wife to save

From the approaching fire a commentary

On eschatology: The Seventh Seal.