In sleep when an old man’s body is no longer
Aware of his boundaries, and lies flattened by
Gravity like a mere of wax in its bed. . . It drips
Down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a
Cheek. . . Under the back door into the silver meadow,
Like a pool of sperm, frosty under the moon, as if in
His first nature, boneless and absurd.
The moon lifts him up into its white field, a cloud
Shaped like an old man, porous with stars.
He floats through high dark branches, a corpse tangled
In a tree on a river.