Arthur, 1992
Reuben Gelley Newman
for Arthur Russell
Enclosed in a castle of cassettes,
you fortify your body with song.
Being sad is not a crime,
you sing to Tom, who strokes
your head spotted with sarcoma,
and your shrunken face brightens
at his touch, and the moonlight slants
onto you, two men together in a field
of five-line staves, hastily sketched lyrics,
the patter of the drum machine like the beat
of sparrows’ wings. You swallow water
in your beak of a mouth and develop
cancer of the throat; your apartment
an archive of every sound
you ever wrote.