The Last Station

Cover him over, clover.

Grass, you long-baired, wheezy cover,

hold him down.

That dust was man that plucks your roots,

that signals from the dark,

again, again.

That man was both of us,

my gentle reader.

He was fine, they say. No worse

than you are when you leave your bed

unmade, unfilled.

No worse than I am when I eat fresh bread

while elsewhere in the world

the bread is stale.

No worse, no better,

though he tried to heal.

Speak, Russian wind.

Blow harshly from the steppes

and clear the rubble.

Rip tall trees to whistling timber,

stripped of leaves.

The old world’s bare in winter as we leave.