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So many poems about the deaths of animals,Wilbur's toad, Kinnell's porcupine, Eberharfs squirrel,and that poem by someone — Hecht? Merrill? —about cremating a woodchuck. But mostlyI remember the outrageous number of them,as if every poet, I too, had written at leastone animal elegy; with the result that todaywhen I came to a good enough poem by Edwin Brockabout finding a dead fox at the edge of the seaI could not respond; as if permanent shock