Thursday, February 12, 2015
The train stopped far to the south. There was snow in New York.
Here you could go about in shirtsleeves the whole night.
But no one was out. Only the cars
flew past in their glare, flying saucers.
'We battlefields who are proud
of our many dead . . .'
said a voice while I wakened.
The man behind the counter said:
'I'm not trying to sell it,
I'm not trying to sell it,
I only want you to look at it.'
And he showed the Indians' axes.
The boy said:
'I know I have a prejudice,
I don't want to be left with it sir.
What do you think of us?'
This motel is a strange shell. With a hired car
(a huge white servant outside the door)
almost without memory and without ploy
at last I can settle on to my point of balance.
--fr. Sounding and Tracks (1966)
tr. Robin Fulton