One morning in Bangkok, in December 1968
Thomas Merton reads his paper on Monastic
Perspectives. While taking a shower, Thomas reaches
For a fan on the terrazzo floor. An hour later
Two abbots have to force open the bathroom door
And the one called Hass is electrocuted
When he yanks out the cord of the fan.
A Korean prioress certifies that the death
Is death by accidental electrocution. The fan
Had defective wiring. There is nothing
You can do about it. I doubt you took off
For heaven in a bright flare of flame, Thomas Merton,
Even if you were 220 volts in a hotel bathroom.
Merton wrote about that man, Mersault, the stranger
On the beach. And Camus, good looking
On his motorcycle, is in a Facel-Vega in 1960.
Funny that he'd said a car crash
Is a ridiculous way to die. It is February
In Paris in 1980, but nothing can lift the spirit
Of Roland Barthes, because his mother just died.
There is a meeting that afternoon, but he
Would rather stay in bed, listening to bicycle bells
Outside his window. Roland spoke to his mother
Everyday. He finishes a paper on aspiration, attends
A meeting with the President. Bored, he leaves early
And at 3:45, at the Rue de Ecole, a laundry van
Runs over him. The paper on his study table
Is creased where he leaned upon it. It is called
One always fails to speak about
The things that one loves.
Though you find funny
Death by household appliances and laundry vans
You know you should laugh only at
Yourself for not fearing the other things that happen
Quietly: quixotic dreams that disappear once
You look away, the miscellaneous leave-takings
Smaller than death, the morning you wake up changed
And know there's nothing you can do about it.
You will fail to speak of the few things you have loved.
You will not notice the briefcase in the street.
The fan will continue, undisturbed, its humming to itself.