The word I spoke in anger 
weighs less than a parsley seed, 
but a road runs through it 
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot 
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines 
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough,
strayed from my own nature 
and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry, 
but I'm too old to be 
anybody's child.
Liebchen,
with whom should I quarrel 
except in the hiss of love, 
that harsh, irregular flame? 

Added: on May 27th, 2005 at 1:11 PM | Viewed: 985 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Stanley Kunitz
Poem: The Quarrel

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