In this one Maxwell Perkins dips his shadow into white ink
while the dust of evening settles
soft as birdsong winces
when you bleed me with a compass needle ­ there I am
chopping trees into horses, puttin' my treasure X
in that there river, paring my fingernails
in famous grave ­

        Death is a bachelor, but I expected
        His place to be clean. Instead, the bed's unmade,
        The long-past-polished floor's piled high
        With clothesheaps; takeout bones; the ruined
        Wreck of some machine it seems he couldn't fix
        To save his life; a dirty fingered
        Windowpane, beneath which, mounted on the sill