w.
S. Merwin
FOUR POEMS
THE DRUNK IN THE FURNACE
For a good decade
The furnace stood in the naked gulley, fireless
And vacant as any hat. Then when it was
No more to them than
(It
hulking black fossil
To erode unnoticed with the rest of the junk-hill
By the poisonous creek, and rapidly to be added
To their ignorance,
They were afterwards astonished
To confirm, one morning, a twist of smoke like a pale
Resurrection, staggering out of its chewed hole,
And to remark then other tokens that someone,
Cosily bolted behind the eye-holed iron
Door of the drafty burner, had there established
His bad castle.
Where he gets his spirits
It's a mystery. But the stuff keeps him musical:
Hammer-and-anvilling with poker and bottle
To his jugged bellowings, till the last groaning clang
As
he collapses onto the rioting
Springs of a litter of car seats ranged on the grates
To sleep like an iron pig.
In their tar-paper church
On a text about stokeholes that are sated never
Their Reverend lingers. They nod and hate trespassers.
