Henry went over the edge of the bridge first; he always did.
Then Mr. Interlocutor and Mr. Bones, then the blackface minstrels
with their tambourines. You have to empty out
all of the contents before the person himself dies.
The beard went over the edge, and Stephen Crane,
and the never-completed scholarly work on Shakespeare,
and faculty wives, and a sheaf of recovery wards
white-tiled in the blue shadow of the little hours.
He loosened his necktie and the recurrent dream
of walking out under water to the destined island.
His mother went over in pearls; his father went over.
His real father went over, whoever his father was.
He thought to go over with someone, hand in hand
with perhaps Mistress Bradstreet, but someone always
preceded him.
The news of his death preceded him. It hit the water
with a fat splash and the target twanged.
When there was nothing to see with or hear with, the
silent traffic
of bystanders wrapped in snow, his only body
let itself loose, turned and waved before it went over
to what it could never understand as being the human
shore.
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