In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

And lies sleeping beneath the inward sky Of a tree's skin, close to the quick. It's best to keep still. But: There goes that bird that whistled me down here To the river a moment ago. Who is he? A little white barn owl from Hudson's Bay, Flown out of his range here, and lost? Oh, let him be home here, and, if he wants to, He can be the body that casts That white shadow across the waters Just offshore. THE LIFE Murdered, I went, risen, Where the murderers are, That black ditch Of river. And if I come back to my only country With a white rose on my shoulder, What is that to you? It is the grave In blossom. It is the trillium of darkness, It is hell, it is the beginning of winter, It is a ghost town of Etruscans who have no names Any more. It is the old loneliness. It is. And it is The last time. SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER 155 ...

Share