VII

from

THE MIRACULOUS RAID (1985)

PRONOUNS

(МЕСТОИМЕНИЯ)

There’s treachery that’s carried in the blood:

betrayal of oneself, one’s eye and finger;

there’s treachery of debauchee and drinker –

but from a different kind save me, O Lord.

We’re lying here. We’re feeling bad. We’re ill.

Up by the window lives our soul, quite separate.

Beneath us there’s no ordinary bed, but

a putrid palliasse in a hospital.

The patient I displeases me for that

he keeps himself in such filthy disorder;

there’s soupstains on his gob, and stains of terror

and something else, God knows what, on the sheet.

There’s still another thing pulsating through our veins,

while we lie there with feet growing more chilly:

it’s every lying act we have committed

coming to call, demanding settlements.

How strange, though, and how free you live up there

with tree branch, snow, and bird outside the window,

watching the way that falsehood’s life is winding

down, so full of pain and full of fear.