The Executive’s Death

Merchants have multiplied more than the stars of heaven. 
Half the population are like the long grasshoppers 
That sleep in the bushes in the cool of the day;
The sound of their wings is heard at noon, muffled, near the earth.
The crane handler dies; the taxi driver dies, slumped over 
In his taxi. Meanwhile high in the air an executive 
Walks on cool floors, and suddenly falls.
Dying, he dreams he is lost in a snowbound mountain 
On which he crashed, carried at night by great machines. 
As he lies on the wintry slope, cut off and dying, 
A pine stump talks to him of Goethe and Jesus. 
Commuters arrive in Hartford at dusk like moles 
Or hares flying from a fire behind them,
And the dusk in Hartford is full of their sighs.
Their trains come through the air like a dark music,
Like the sound of horns, the sound of thousands of small wings.