Because, in spite of the splendor
it's revealed in him, in spite of a lifetime
unbinding its homeliest and sublime
expression from locked, stone-fast torpor,
the body is not at the end godlike, bends
in the wrong places, drags its feet and head
sloppily, incontinent--let it dangle here,
pregnant with true origin and destiny.
And because at the end someone must be there,
some one or two (for it is heavy) to suffer
its new demands, let them be tender, a worn
father, a young mother, like his, though neither
would comprehend anymore his need
now--dim memory? premonition?--to be lifted.
By Philip White