Martin Ferry’s Autumn Publication Date Begins in Ohio (James Wright/Franz Wright Mash-Up)
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
one of the few pleasures of writing. (I just noticed
that it is.) My own private dreaming of heroes:
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful for a cold night
in Boston; all morning their women cluck like starved
pullets and gallop terribly against each other’s bodies.
At the beginning of October is the thought
of one’s book in the hands of a kind-hearted national.
I hate myself.
And want to.
Dying for love in the Shreve High football stadium,
and all afternoon they say, therefore,
“I am Federico Garcia Lorica
at the edge of town! How did I get here? And want to?”
Live forever, only different.
I’m in the cemetery now.
(The forecast calls all the proud fathers “our ashamed.”)
To go home, a sparrow limps past on its
little bone crutch, saying, “Intelligent person somewhere!”
(I can’t remember what the…)
Tomorrow will be just like today: risen from the dead.
Right now, literature will lose, sunlight will win. Don’t
worry which. (Means? The next day.)
I will love my life–
and the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
and gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood.