I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT
(Jumel Mansion)
My schoolhouse massacre goes on
and on - as if each day something new
to be slaughtered arises. I have, I have
yet, the stars and the moon, that Winter
hoar-frost and those blazing nettle-bush
fires on high. Let me then once more
just stand alone. There is always the
sound of mayhem and mess -
the doctor's ash-heap for sure.
-
There's a certain genuine nervousness
in walking down from Harlem Heights.
That old black man seems stirring his
frothy coffee with an undue vengeance.
I watch, and then stagger alone - old
music fills my ears. I'm gazing out from
Morningside Heights, eastward, over a
city that seems but an assemblage of shit.
-
Why make any of this matter? It doesn't
and I won't - there are too many people
spelling and spilling my name to care.
I am famous at my own dumb level :
waterway and reservoir, conduit and
boathouse lake; it's all another page
in some coloring book of an urban life.
-
Hamilton Grange? Was that the name of
this place - a pale white mansion on a hill -
when there yet were hills and geography ruled
place and setting - wild trails and wonderful
things. I know that I've lost all my squalid places,
having gathered both grace and quality instead.
-
(No, no, it was the Jumel Mansion). There
I sat on the cold, hard ground, watching the
world while sitting down - and remembering
those peacocks at St. John the Divine.
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