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R.
H. W. DILLARD | From What
Is Owed the Dead
Afterword
“So happiness,” Frank, “and
sadness,” you said,
“Mix here,” and “everything in old age can sadden,”
But broke down early, five, mother forbade games,
Thus books, “so make all things clear,” then war,
DUCE on broken Italian walls, home, UK, then
Known, one poem in Oxford English Verse, one
In Twentieth Century Modern, but always there
And here, your edged, proud term, “Outsider,”
Not like those kids in Gorran Haven, “We’re outsiders,”
Pleading, “Let us in,” not really in, you, ever,
Except somewhat in USA, “this country, its laws
Of glass,” taken up, later on, clambering with love
Over stony flooded Cascades in Virginia (03/84), always
“The attempt to wake,” poetry, “and breathe,” you,
“And be,” who knew, “because to love is frightening,”
How easy it is to choose “the freedom of our crimes.” 
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