Life of Savage
I've been excited about him as an individual.
I've met him as a person, emerging from his own shadow.
Indeed it is remarkable.
Indeed it is to be remarked of my friend Savage that
You'd have to be as crazy as Dante to get those down,
the infernal hatreds.
Shoot them. Shoot them where they live
Bright Copper Kettles
Dead friends coming back to life, dead family,
speaking languages living and dead, their minds retentive,
their five senses intact, their footprints like a butterfly's,
mercy shining from their comprehensive faces—
The mountain that remains when the universe is destroyed
is not big and is not small.
Big and small are
The house collapsed and I was crushed under the rubble,
pulverized, but here I am,
walking around as if I were alive —
with an oxeye daisy in my buttonhole,
the bitter voluptuary, never satisfied,
the three-legged dog,
the giant under the tiny parasol at
the only Abyssinian in the choir of the
Abyssinian Baptist Church.
(Somebody must have done a self-portrait of me.)
Just amazing. I think I could wrap my arms all the way around
the 24,901-miles-circumferenced Earth.