On the second-
to-last
day on the planet—a feeling
too new
and strange—to comprehend
intellectually
will swell to warm
the space
behind of the eyes of—not only
each poet—
but every kind-
ly, upright and polite-
hearted doctor
who has ever rightly
told him
that there's
nothing
especially—wrong with his insides;
not of fear
or relief or self-
righteous indignation,
but simply—of failure,
unfurling
in slow motion
behind
the subdued and melancholy
low brows
of both of them—that is,
of sheer
unwillingness, deep
in the core
of each man,
to dare
under-
take—what
he can't
understand.
