the furrow I scratched there in blood,
cross, chrism, incantation, ejaculatory
prayer-damnation, salvation;
if they can only think of you
as a weasel or a woman,
with whom can I share my discovery,
where bury the gold I carry,
the bellied-out furnace raging
inside me, when, leaving me,
you turn up stairs?
SEPTEMBER
Eugenio Montale
(adapted by Robert Lowell)
In town, your friends play hide-and-seek
In dead leaves piled by the sidewalk.
Today I hiked along the creek,
Through stiff weeds and the sharp oat stalks,
Carrying myoId binoculars;
I hoped to spot that small Green Heron
We saw together down the marsh
This August. He'd gone off on an errand.
Then too, of course this
is
September.
The newts in the creek had gone, already.
I don't know where. I can't remember
Your face or anything you said.
