ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
THEFT OF A LINE FROM MONTALE
The obstinate news, the turbulence
swinging all around its red center,
the surge of compassion nailed down
hard, the regular ticking of the fall
of the starving, of despairing prisoners,
of the bullet-heavy innocent--
I don't know enough to prophesy
over the static of contention, I don't know
out of what Jerusalem of the past or future
comes the hour of redeemed imagination,
I don't know the possum's trick of lying
with her tail in this world and her nose
in the other,
I don't know if the muffled step in the garden
is truly yours, Messenger, or what in the spell
of our fiercely possessed night flies up,
calling in a few loud notes the capital words
we cannot prevent, the shattering of love
we held for one another.