After your death I took all your things and burned them, the photo's and letters you sent and the lock of hair cut from a passing businessman's suitcoat. Your books and clothes went into the fire also. The next day I hoped for pyromancery and sorted through the ashes for some sign. I found the cover of your poetry anthology, charred, but readable. I folded it and slipped it into my pocket so that for years every time I stuck my hand into that pocket it came out black. When I arrived home I translated this sign into a lament for your things.
Who will build us a box for Old Burnt Norton
One that will carry him
deep
Who will dig us the hole
Into which we'll place all of his
things
His shoes and his rings
And marriage his dry bones into
sleep
Our ship going homeward
is a scalpel blade
slicing the green skin of
the sea
and if this were his skin would you peel
it back folding
reflected brightness
upon brightness
stretch this poor canvas
over tent pegs to dry
The winter white bark of the sycamore
with its skin of leprosy
has a
face
and a hand like his
Who will take on the house of Old Burnt Norton
As his cold body goes
down
Who will work in the fields
Plough under his crop
And
slaughter his stock
When autumn turns alder leaves brown
We can look deeply
at the photograph
as if it were a jade clouded
pool
where we hoped we might find goldfish
What we see is only
the blackness of his iris
no different than the pupil
never a burning
magnesium thought
or more cedar contemplations
Who will make us a Barley wine for Old Burnt Norton
To warm the hearts
all around
Who will unbraid their hair
Rent the stitch of their
shirt
And throw a black spade-full of dirt
where the weave of his
short life now ends
Beside the grey stones of the road
don't think of the frantic
flit
flit
flit of pigeons
Think instead of the small-winged birds
the sound of a flock
starting
into flight
is a splash of gasoline catching fire
Somewhere in its earthy heart the world
is making a fragrance for him
uncorked and poured
a bottle of blood wine
spilled on the compost
or the skin of your knuckles
dusted over
and over
with lavender
ash