Notes from the Castle

The sunlight was not our concern or even The pane it shone through, and no one was going Down for the mail, and the four lettuces The gardener brought as a gift seemed to be A calculated bounty, so that early on We knew we were going to be stuck with ourselves The rest of the day, the vicissitudes Marching in rows from the forest, the balms Not arriving till nightfall. On the prowl Since morning, the wind had a touch too much Of motivation, an annoying way Of exactly ruffling the same oak leaf As if it were practicing a piano trill; All day, repetitive birds, far off, Were either boring themselves to death Or, drunk on instinct, doing their thing: Ritual dances, territorial rites— The whole imperial egg. What nests Ambition is weaving in us is hard To say: after the flat occasion, The unshared sphere, each childish wish Grows hopeless finding this is what the world is. For this, the recommended cures are useless: A cheery hello to the disaffected At breakfast? A soupful of tears at dinner? You could spill the whole silly story out To one more demanding, ill-tempered beauty You happened to meet at the A. & P., And still every greedy shopping cart, First overstuffed and then abandoned In the parking lot, would leave in its wake Some human need, ignored, half-starved . . . Torn between having nothing to say And saying it, whole diaries get down: How terrible to have dressed beautifully for the rain! . . . I was launched on New York’s bisexual muddle . . .