Classic Poem

Say that I write with one foot in the grave.

Iambic limping scripts a dotted line;
Around the undulating orbit goes
In circles like a perfect argument.

So say I write with one foot in the grave,
A way of walking not unlike a dance
(Though not like any dance a dancer does).

Say that I write while strolling in the woods,
Say that I write while lolling out of doors,
Or standing in a kitchen during snow,
Or loafing aboard a raft that itself loafs.

Say I compose with one foot down the drain,
One soaking in a pan of midnight ink
So that my blood ran cold, the blue and red
Together, rather as though an admiral
And a cardinal, lost in airtight conversation,
Bore no news for us but their color scheme.

I say, Ich steh' mit einem Fuss im Grabe.

Let there be oilcloth on the table, curled
At the edges like a florid scroll, or, say,
Eighteenth-century lace, as at my knuckles
And all around the border of the window
Between me and that square suburban square:

Lighthearted slaughterhouse where wolves are quartered,
Totemic creatures with more than human features.