Burial

the polatouche, which is "the flying squirrel of Siberia",

and this drawer is labelled in Cyrillic characters.

Here I note on my way eidetic visions in colours stood up in

front of a poet. And here the nature of the incidence of

cholera was observed from the loose dead, who had drawn

from a single pump.

Along all of the squalid street under breaking buildings

green avocadoes glitter in boxes. Polished fruits of bald

heads of old salesmen, brown cocoanut heads of the whisk-

ered. Fog at the cross-streets changes from red to green.

BURIAL

The old ones go to each other's funerals,

The old ones mourn themselves.

It is sometimes in perfection of the weather

In as now the ending summer

When shoe-darkening wetness of the grass of lawns,

And graveyards, does not dry or dull

Until about the tolling of the bell.

Not even the cleric thinks of heaven,

No one who's here has visions of a hell.

Glad that it's over, sons go off to their gravid

Wives or to their girls. And driving

Slowly home, in their expensive limousines,

The old ones mourn themselves.