James Merrill Poems
|2.||The Candid Decorator||5/9/2012|
|5.||The Puzzle Is No Puzzle||5/9/2012|
|7.||A Mysterious Epigraph||5/9/2012|
|9.||An Urban Convalescence||5/9/2012|
|10.||Voices From The Other World||5/9/2012|
|11.||The Broken Home||5/9/2012|
The Broken Home
Crossing the street,
I saw the parents and the child
At their window, gleaming like fruit
With evening’s mild gold leaf.
In a room on the floor below,
Sunless, cooler—a brimming
Saucer of wax, marbly and dim—
I have lit what’s left of my life.
I have thrown out yesterday’s milk
And opened a book of maxims.
The flame quickens. The word stirs.
Tell me, tongue of fire,
That you and I are as real
At least as the people upstairs.
My father, who had flown in World War I,
Might have continued to invest his life
In cloud banks well ...