Collected Poems 1956-1976 [antikvár]

TO MY FRIEND WHOSE PARACHUTE DID NOT OPEN Thrown backwards first, head over heels in the wind Like solid streameis from the wing to tail, Vou connted whatever pulses came to mind— The black, the bright—and at the third, you pulled. Pulled savagely at the ring clenched in your hand. Down the smooth slope of your trajectory. Obeying physics like a bauble of hail, Thirty-two feet per second per second hurled Toward treetops, cows, and crouching gravity From the unreasonable center of the world, You saw the cords trail out from behind your back, Rise up and stand, tied to a piece of cloth Whose edges wobbled, but would not spread wide To borrow a cup of air and hold you both. 0 that tall shimmer whispered you were dead. You outraced thought. What good was thinking then? Poor time—no time for plunging into luck Which had, like your whirling, weightless flesh, grown thin. 1 know angelic wisdom leaped from your mouth, But not in words, for words can be afraid: You sang a paean at the speed of soimd, Compressed miraculous air within your head And made it fountain upward like a cowl. And if you didn't, then you struck the ground. And if you struck the groimd, both of us died.