and the aeroplanes fly,

and the golfers, glittering, swing,
and I work at my translating
while outside it is sunny, clean,
and here am I inside
all the curves of being, of living -
decay within that rots the sun,
rain preventing growth
by deluge,
flocks of birds that block
the engine functioning -
no ruth
no luck
no unction:
I lose
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem