Gifts for the Dead Guy

What to give a wiseacre
Who has a natural gift
For infinite sleep? Really,

The night gathers strange numbers,
Counting those you could count
Under any other wing—

Any other wing you might
Spot flying—geese at twilight—
Eager to get warmer soon,

Eager to move from image
To metaphor, metaphor
To something metaphorish,

Metaphorish to someone
Warm and real, a poem tonight
That might work for what you

Need to feel, you wiseacre,
Wiseacre enough to feel.