Sixty seasons I have sowed, man and boy,
and I tell you, Matthew, that a seed
can not grow in the heart. No, one may
as well throw it away or feed
the chickens with it. For a fact, love
is something that only the devil
understands. I'd rather put my trust
in stones and reap a quick crop, for ill
or good. That way, you have no roots and
get what you can in a few short suns.
Or take cactus plants, at least a man
sees the thorns and expects to be stuck,
unless he's a fool—some choke on wool.
As for good ground, Matthew, that's just luck;
I've seen other fellows' orchards full,
year after year, where no one's lifted
a hand or a hoe except to pull
the ripe fruits down. Some men are gifted.
INTERVIEW
Poet, who are you?
Janus, god of gates and doors
and all beginnings
A weather cock
facing in every direction
A festive singer who can wear
goatskins and bleat
Are you not made like other men?
Twin of their image and echo
fired in one clay
Shadow of young men's mornings
and ghost of old men's nights