Dead at the pasture edge,

his head is without eyes, becalmed

on the grass. There was no escaping

the heaviness that came on him,

the darkness that rose

under his belly as though he stood

in a black sucking pool.

Earth’s weight grew in him,

and he lay down. As he died

a great bird took his eyes.

Where is the horror in it?

Not in him, for he came to it

as a shadow into the night.

It was nameless and familiar.

He was fitted to it. In me

is where the horror is. In my mind

he does not yield. I cannot believe

the deep peace that has come to him.

I am afraid that where the light

is torn there is a wound.

There is a darkness in the soul

that loves the eyes. There is a light

in the mind that sees only light

and will not enter the darkness.

But I would have a darkness

in my mind like the dark

the dead calf makes for a time

on the grass where he lies, and will make

in the earth as he is carried down.

May all dead things lie down in me

and be at peace, as in the ground.