Monday, January 17, 2011

A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

The downstairs doorbell, followed by a knock.

(Which is it?)

I roll over, open my book.

A poem by Ezra Pound:


I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman --
I have detested you long enough,
I come to you as a grown child
Who has a pig-headed father;
I am old enough to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root --
Let there be commerce between us.


  1. Whitman in its flourished aversion of poetic form melts slowly over ice forms ill working rims on tires scraping chicago streets

  2. Streets made safe for Carl Sandburg