Poems May 1984
Eight days of rain;
the ground refuses more.
My neighbors are morose at the village store.
I’m sick of holding still, sick of indoors,
so I walk through the heavy-headed grasses
to watch the river reach
for the bridge’s wooden planks,
bending the lithe swamp maples
that grow along the banks.
Nothing but trouble comes to mind
as I lean over the rusty iron rail.
I know of plenty, in detail, that is not
my own. I nudge a pebble over the edge.
It drops with a thunk into the water—
dark, voluminous, and clear,
and moving headlong away from here.
New to The New Criterion?
Subscribe for one year to receive ten print issues, and gain immediate access to our online archive spanning more than four decades of art and cultural criticism.Subscribe
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 2 Number 9, on page 50
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com