Rodney Dying

R. is sitting in a draft
—we trade places.
I see that he has a large, round hole
from the top of his head
down into his belly,
a tunnel with blood and bones around it.
He is himself,
not pretending
but completely courteous and sweet. He says,
You have to wrap your feet with paper
from now on
for this new journey.

Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems