At midnight we make noise to distract
The demons who, it's said, wait to destroy
The new year. I know demons but've never
Asked what they plan to do if they succeed.
There are rumors, though, of a machine
Made of paper, spit, steel and cobwebs
With great gaps in it so that instead of
The riverine existence we have now we'd
Learn to jump between instants. Dreams
Left behind might wait for our return
Or go their way or see what was new
Among the realmless dead.
Someone draws a picture of me,
And strikes it with an iron knife but I,
Carved from durable stuff,
Shrug it off. I am no tender dove
To fall dead from the sky
When Clown Brandon stabs its image.
At twelve on New Years Eve, lamenting
By the rules, I'll be on the roof
Calling the names of the dead. They
Have their own customs though,and may
Be in the basement, breaking into the wine.
About midnight the old day's supply of time
Is like to run out. If the new's not arrived
We make do with space, hammered thin.
The cat comes by, asking me
To do something about the dead
Who've taken to appearing
In her corner of the basement
Urging her to avenge them.
The café is filled
With demons who are,
Most of them, off duty.
Waiters bring them endless
Cups of dark coffee. Max,
My grandfather, nods to me
From his seat in a corner.
He'll not tell his son
Nor I my father that we
Are comfortable with demons.
At an imaginary university a hypothetical student
Has begun, is deeply into, has decided not to start
An intensive study of my oeuvre. In an attempt to learn
Something, Sparafucile the assassin has been contacted
Through a fictional room-mate's ouija board.
The student asks how Sparafucile and I met
And whether he, at least, likes the poems
I write about him. Unfortunately, he's never looked at them;
But dimly remembers reading and not much liking
A long something that involved Verlaine's unborn brothers