Her absence hisses like steam,
the pipes sing ...
even corroded metal somehow functions.
He snores
in
his iron lung,
and hears the voice of Eve,
beseeching freedom from the Garden's
perfect and ponderous bubble. No voice
outsings the serpent's flawed, euphoric hiss.
The cheese wilts in the rat-trap,
the milk turns to junket
in
the cornflakes bowl,
pennies and used silver razor blades
shine by the car keys.
Is he killing time? Out on the street,
two cops on horseback clop through the April rain
to check the parking meter violations-
their oilskins, yellow as forsythia.
Robert Lowell
HAWK ROOSTING
I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.
