From an epigram by Plato br br br When I was a boy, a relative br Asked for me a job br At the Weeks Cemetery. br Think of all I could br Have raised that summer, br That money, and me br Living at home, br Fattening and getting br Ready to live my life br Out on my knees, humming, br Kneading up docks br And sumac from br Those flawless clerks-at-court, those beautiful br Grocers and judges, the polished br Dead of whom we make br So much. br br br I could have stayed there with them. br Cheap, too. br Imagine, never br To have turned br Wholly away from the classic br Cold, the hill, so laid br Out, measure by seemly measure clipped br And mown by old man Albright br The sexton. That would have been a hell of br A way to make a living. br br br Thank you, no. br I am going to take my last nourishment br Of measure from a dark blue br Ripple on swell on ripple that makes br Its own garlands. br My dead are the secret wine jars br Of Tyrian commercial travelers. br Their happiness is a lost beginning, their graves br Drift in and out of the Mediterranean. br br br One of these days br The immortals, clinging to a beam of sunlight br Under water, delighted by delicate crustaceans, br Will dance up thirty-foot walls of radiance, br And waken, br The sea shining on their shoulders, the fresh br Wine in their arms. Their ships have drifted away. br They are stars and snowflakes floating down br Into your hands, love.