Death Watch

“Well if you leave out his personal life, he was a happy man.”
—Lynn Brown Jr., business associate of Wallace Stevens

It is, of course, old Wallace Stevens,
austere as a cow in autumn,
polite, blandly circumspect,
curled hair above the black long
coat; it is he who stands watch—
waiting for you—and you, again,
have the taut skin of an infant,
your body covered in the thin
sheet as if already wrapped
in burial cloth, the neat lines
spindling out like ripples of a pond,
your eyes turned to that sweet
sister of yours, in her chair,
watching over you, helpless
as a saint who knows all too well
that the rest is not our affair.
Mr. Stevens says nothing; he is
kindly but that is because
you know how careful he is
with the arrangement, the paper
work. And when he says, with
a ticking dry tongue: Well, it
is all in order now, you can
have a good death, you know
he makes his poems as an accountant
calculates what is in hand
and rarely considers what is to come.
Protect me, you say to your sister,
with her pointed nose and crooked
stick. She stares at Mr. Stevens,
then mutters softly, It will be fine,
sweetie, you go . . . And you know
she has not heard you; you
know, for you have not spoken.