for Delmore Schwartz
From the parched courtyards of our past
they grope toward us in the night,
the desperate shades of schnooks, outcast
before their debts are paid. One might
be in me as I speak, stuck fast.Excuse my cough. It is the strain
all overburdened asses feel—
too many souls, like sacks of grain
strapped to my back. I stagger, kneel
in pain—not prayerful, pure and plain.Come, brother dybbuk, to my trough.
Drink up. I’ll bear our double heap
of guilt, before I shuffle off
your half of it and make the leap
into some other poor dummkopf.
