For Weldon Kees

From the dark span that saw his own span break,

he once looked westward over raining hills,

and saw in asphalt caves the things that killed

themselves and him. The treadmill of his thoughts

turned in the empty rooms where telephones

demanded Robinson, but Robinson

was never anywhere he ought to be.

Later, in the mock-up of a city,

a man was seen: the man was Robinson,

but no one ever knew what route he took.

And no one ever knew if he was dead.

None of it mattered. A few pages hold

the words of him who found the world too cold,

and left it, leaving all he said unsaid.