Vessels, By JAMES DICKEY

When the sound of forest leaves is like the sleep-talk

Of half-brothers; when it trembles shorts itself out

Between branches, and is like light that does not cost

Itself any light, let me turn: turn right then,

Right as it happens and say: I crave wandering

And giving: I crave

My own blood, that makes the body

Of the lover in my arms give up

On the great sparkling vault of her form,

when I think instead

Of my real brother, who talks like no leaf

Or no half,

and of the road he will be on

As my body drops off

And the step he takes from me

Comes kicking,

and he feels the starry head that has hovered

Above him all his life

come down on his, like mine

Exactly,

or near enough.

From “The Whole Motion: Collected Poems, 1948-1992” (Weslyan/University Press of New England: $29.95; 475 pp.). James Dickey was born in Atlanta. He was in the army during World War II and in the Air Force during the Korean War. He is Poet-in-Residence at the University of South Carolina.

1992 by James Dickey.