Pieces of the past arise out of the rubble.  Which evokes Eliot and
then evokes Suspicion. Ghosts all of them. Doers of no good.

The past around us is deeper than.

Present events defy us, the past

Has no such scruples. No funeral processions for him. He died
in agony.   The cock under the thumb.

Rest us as corpses

We poets

Vain words.

For a funeral (as I live and breathe and speak)

Of good

And impossible

Dimensions.

 

Jack Spicer

First poem for The Nation,

Second poem for Poetry Chicago

Book of Magazine Verse

 

© 1966 by Robin Blaser