The Quarrel

 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?

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...