At half past twelve
last night
Dylan Thomas appeared simultaneously
in my great mirror and at the window
with a red-hot hand in his mouth
truly dead
and holy
and fearsome
like I had burned him myself
– Come with me brother, he said
you rot over here
come to the northern ravines of my homeland
where ducks no longer lay ice
and instead lay red eggs
This little the great poet said to me
no longer in my mirror or at the window
but inside the long grasses of his death
half of him, from his midsection up, in the light
outside in the grass
the half from his mid-section down in darkness
below the light.
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