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?
(Stanley Kunitz)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Life Poems, Cry Poems, Anger PoemsBased on Keywords: half-way, hiss, scrub, irregular, quarrel, overlook, parsley, truro, liebchen