Yesterday Anthony Hecht died. Last week I bought what turns out to be his final collection of essays, Melodies Unheard, and today, while the light lasted on my drive from Maryland, I read the Introduction and the first two essays,"Shakespeare and the Sonnet" and "The Sonnet: Ruminations on Form, Sex, and History." More tomorrow on that, when I'm not wired and tired from the drive.
When the light failed I plugged a transmitter into my iPod and listened to poems. As I parked in front of my house Hecht's "The End of the Weekend" ended:
A great black presence beats its wings in wrath.
Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes,
Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip.
8:18:30 PM 
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