AT MELVILLE'S TOMB
It is not mine. I am too
colloquial, perhaps, for that.
Yet, Hart Crane's poem about
Melville's tomb still knocks
me dead each time I read it.
-
My own clutched force of a
dabbing hand has difficulty
holding such emotion : I face
things in a more blase fashion,
a manner not unknown to the
jaded and the faded.
-
A sinecure like I'm describing
leaves me with plenty of time
for nothing. Boy, have I become
a slouch. A real ring-toss loser.
-
I carry shells from Keyport to
that grave on Gun Hill Road.
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