Category Archives: Cape Cod Light

The Loved One

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Breaking up is hard to do, and many of us look back on old relationships and grimace at how we behaved, how we were treated, and so on. The silver lining, for those who grow emotionally, is that we learn from our past mistakes and become better partners, and learn to partner with more compatible people in the future.

Michael had a rough childhood, as an army brat moving around the world, then later as a cerebral and gay teenager. His mother raised him to be proper and not complain—stiff British upper lip and all that—and that rearing ultimately served him well and shaped a lot of what made him so special.

He grew to understand that successful relationships require sacrifice and nurturing and growth, and not to feel entitled to other people’s good behavior, even a lover’s.

Michael with his mother, Valerie

Michael had a poet’s knack for perfectly articulating, in a few words, nebulous feelings you could never quite articulate, or even think about clearly, especially about love.

The eleventh poem in Cape Cod Light is The Loved One, about a certain sort of lover.


The Loved One

I know if I’m wrong you won’t defend me.
You’ll call your mother and tell her how wrong.
If I’m bitchy
Everyone will hear about it at once.
You weren’t raised the way I was
To say everything’s just fine,
To wake up as a child,
Eat breakfast, and walk out
To face the angry bullies on the schoolbus.
You never needed to explain.
You grew up convinced it didn’t make sense.
When you found love, you took it,
Something that was happening, like weather.


The next poem is here.

Disco Dancing

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael loved music, and enjoyed dancing (though truth be told he wasn’t very good at it.)

Michael dancing in the living room with Michael Carl. (I think they’re dancing? ;)

Michael’s haunt in Provincetown was the Little Bar at the A House, the slightly quieter one with less club-y music that was well-lit, and where he could get a table and smoke. And also (Michael was sure to note to those he would introduce the bar to): it was the spot where Tennessee Williams liked to sit and write when he lived in Provincetown. (!)

All night there would a steady stream of people from the A House Dance Club and the Macho Bar around and through the Little Bar, and thus Michael got to sit at the social hub of town, and enjoy its characters, while listening to the music. Later, after indoor smoking was banned in Massachusetts (and after Cape Cod Light was published), he favored the Porch Bar at the Gifford House as his preferred spot to “hold court” (as Richard Schneider put it).

The tenth poem in Cape Cod Light is Disco Dancing. It captures quite well I think the experience of eavesdropping on the random conversations of people at the bar and taking a break from the Dance Club—after a few years, I guess they all start to sound the same.


Disco Dancing

I don’t know if you’re what I want, he said.
We do things totally differently in New York.
She said it was coming on over a generation
Like sunrise sliding down the slope of the Rockies:
Even her dentist smoked pot on his vacations,
And her brother was reading Autobiography of a Yogi.
Someone said the seagulls were diseased,
Whole populations being annihilated right now.
And the jetty was dotted with corpses
Swirling slowly in the scummy brine.
He said it was time to shift inside
With the dancers, away from the hustlers by the pool
With the music, where the words were all the same
Circling back, predictable, on beat.


The next poem is here.

Illustration

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael’s father’s name was actually Elwood.

He met his soon-to-be wife, Valerie at a mixer in England while he was stationed there shortly after VE day. Her name was Enid Elkins, but she went by her middle name Valerie because she hated “Enid.” The story I heard (certainly condensed and probably apocryphal) is that their first conversation went like this:

Valerie: Hello, I’m Valerie. What’s your name?
Elwood: Elwood.
Valerie: [pauses] Do you have another name?
Elwood: My middle name is Van Ness.
Valerie: Hello, Van.
Van: Hello, Valerie.

He took up painting late in life. That story goes that he would occasionally complain that he could do a better job than many of the painters he saw. Valerie got tired of hearing it and challenged him to prove it, so he did.

We have lots of Van’s paintings at our houses now. His genre was “copies of famous paintings.” Or no-so-famous paintings by request—I asked for a painting of the pulsar planets illustrated in Astronomy Magazine when I was young, and his reproduction hangs in my office now. Another not-so-famous reproduction is on the cover of Cape Cod Light.

As far as I know he painted only two originals; you can see part of one one of them at the top of the picture in the last post, made in the style of Rothko, but in the colors of Michael’s collegiate homes (Swarthmore, Yale, Harvard).

Van with Michael, Vanessa (right) and Victoria (my mother, front) at the beach.

So I suspect Michael got much of his artistic sensibilities from him father (though to be fair, Michael’s uncle, Frances Elkins, was also a painter, so he had influences on both sides).

The ninth poem in Cape Cod Light is Illustration. It as about how art reflects life.


Illustration

The painted representation flowers away
Leaving us with these mounds of earth and eloquent grids
On which we can stretch experience.
As if we didn’t know the hero
Is exposed at the end as reflection. Here
The high wire artist is caught in slow motion,
Tumbling, and we wait for the next episode
To see him recover, trotting on with élan.
Or will he? Any time it could be for real
And the other rings in this circus include
The horses, for instance, who surprise you
By dancing. We are coming over the hill
Into a glare of sunlight that distorts
And clarifies: on the right
An orchard ready for harvest;
On the left, a village trembling
On its overhang of rock. What is ahead
Is too much in the light,
But not so unlike ourselves as it first appeared.


The next poem is here.

False Clues

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael was the consummate host. He loved to entertain, to cook giant meals, to show off the house and the view, to keep the music going.

Christmastime was an endless string of family and friends; us kids on couches and mattresses on the floors of every spare room; hors d’oeuvres and drinks for everyone who stopped by or came to stay; Grandpa’s recipe for artillery punch chilling in the snow on the deck.

Thanksgivings were epic, with tables lined up from one end of the house to another, place settings crammed as close as possible, and extra chairs borrowed from the theater company or the AIDS support group.

When we invited ourselves up, when we wanted a place to stay while we showed friends the Cape, Michael never said ‘no.’  Everyone was welcome at Michael and David’s house, within walking distance of downtown and the beach.

Michael in his living room in Provincetown with good friends Ron (left) and Robert (right) at Christmastime.

But things are different when a loved one gets really sick, or after you’ve lost someone. You need space, you lose bandwidth, you can’t hold the smile quite as long. You forget things, you flake, sometimes you don’t even send regrets.

People tend to be nice about it. You and they know this is temporary, that eventually you’ll have the capacity to entertain and to laugh again. But that’s hard to think about.

False Clues is the eighth poem in Cape Cod Light. It first appeared in SQUiD, a “semi-defunct and apocryphal Provincetown publication“. The date there for the poem is May 1980, which means he wrote it while a professor at Muhlenberg.


False Clues

Ordinarily, I’d invite you to arrive
With your knapsack, cigarettes, and kisses.
At times like these,
Amid the neatly paid bills and curls of dead lettuce,
What I await shifts a little,
One thing replacing another, as Orion exiles Hercules.

But this is an apology.
I’ve stood you up before with a worse excuse.
You understand, but it’s not all the same to me.
Everyone has his dawdling angel, everyone knows
How to put it all back in its place
Just as the sky does, every year, with its stars.


The next poem is here.

Death Watch

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael was a cat person. (Myself, I don’t take sides. I grew up with both cats and dogs and both have their charms—and their allergens).

Michael and his pet kitten.

He was also a gardener. The garden on Miller Hill was his annual project, filled with deliberately chosen climate- and soil-appropriate flowers to keep the walk up to the front door beautiful.

Getting to the house, it being tall and at the very top of the hill, required quite a hike. The driveway was very steep, leading to the basement of the house. The first floor of the house was a mother-in-law apartment (his sister Vanessa lived there for a long while). So to get to the main house, one climbed the garden stairs, then the exterior stairs up to the main balcony on the west side of the house, where the front door opened into the dining and living rooms, with their cathedral ceiling.

One of the housecats on the wall of Michael’s garden. 

The seventh poem in Cape Cod Light, Death Watch, is compact and concrete, like an extended haiku, with straightforward symbolism. A bat is killed and buried in the garden; the cats play their natural role of hungry predators.

The unavoidable backdrop to this poem is that around 1990 (the time we arrived to live in their apartment in Brookline) his partner of 5 years, David Harkins, was diagnosed with AIDS. Shortly thereafter, Michael and David relocated to the Cape house full time so they could make the most of their time together. Both the incubation period and the time David lived with AIDS were on the long side at the time, and so for many more years we knew Uncle David and his family every holiday on the Cape.

Cape Cod Light was published the year after David’s death. This poem foretells what is, for those of us who knew Michael and David, the emotional heart of the book to come.

Michael’s dear friend Richard Schneider wrote in Michael’s obituary of “his fatalism, his wholly unsentimental view of life as an arbitrary moment in time—a great privilege to be sure, an opportunity to learn and learn; but don’t get too attached to these borrowed atoms that must be returned, whether sooner or later.”

Death Watch first appeared in Poet and Critic.


Death Watch

A bat died this morning
Under the shovel
On the third step up from the kitchen.

On the first blow
It arched its wings
Shrieking outrage
In mouse cries.
The cats murmured like water.

Under a careful spade
The bat folded into the mulch
And the maw of April:
The cats leapt to the aroma.

Death was bracing;
They smelled it every day.
Gathered,
They guard the mound like Sphinxes.


The next poem is here.

The Angel in the Streets

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael wrote three published books: a textbook for business students called Management Communication: Principles and Practice that grew out of his work at Harvard Business school (which is still in print), Cape Cod Light, of course, and a third called Socrates and Jesus: The Argument That Shaped Western Civilization.

Micheal’s mother was a proper British Anglican. She met my grandfather during the war while he had some R&R time in England. They were married after a whirlwind courtship and Michael grew up an army brat at army bases around the world, until they settled in my grandfather’s home state of Connecticut. My mother was born after my grandfather stopped touring, and they became a nuclear family of five.

Michael was not religious—the closest he came was his nonbeliever’s appreciation for the spectacle of the midnight Christmas Eve High Mass, which we attended once or twice at grandmum’s request, and the poetry of the King James Bible. But his childhood religious education stuck with him, and he wrote with authority about the Gospels’ place in literature and Jesus’s place in history.

Toward the end of his life, he consolidated much of his thoughts about the tension between the Enlightenment and Christianity into a single book, and had it published at a small press with essentially no marketing. I know he hoped it would gain more traction than it ever did; it’s still in print, though and you can find it on Amazon. It’s a good book!

The sixth poem in Cape Cod Light is less concrete than the others, about a lover walking the streets of a city, and his interactions with an angel (that is, perhaps, the city itself?) I’m not actually sure what inspired it or what Michael had in mind, but there are echoes here of lyrics from his all-time favorite album, Graceland:

A man walks down the street
It’s a street in a strange world
Maybe it’s the third world
Maybe it’s his first time around
Doesn’t speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound, the sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says, “Amen and Hallelujah!”

It perhaps also contains allusions to Angels in America, which I have not seen.

[The Angel in the Streets first appeared in the Spring 1995 issue of The Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review.]


The Angel in the Streets

As you walk past, the music behind a door
Draws you, like a lover
Who isn’t sure it’s time to go. The sky
Prepares a background of stars, and behind it
An angel trembles at the approach of a possible god
And numbers his imperfections. The mindless vibration
Rumbles off to another part of the heavens, and the angel
Reflects how divine action is arbitrary,
Without consciousness except in its effects,
Fatal. His attention turns
To the lover, who tells his imagined errors. The angel
Throws his face into his hands and weeps.
He changes nothing.
Would not if he could. But his radiance
Penetrates the lover, and he sings, and the song
Blares from a radio into the street. Children
Plot the outlines of their games, every pedestrian
Watches where he walks, and under a new moon
The loved one walks the city, thinking of love,
Of how it must be earned. And the face, tone, gesture,
The unexpected patch of bloom in the pavement
That moves the heart up or down,
The bronze door, pigeons, colliding crowds
Unfold themselves, like the ragged fragments of an angel.


The next poem is here.

Key West in July With a Nod

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Provincetown is a seasonal town. In the summer, it is filled with GBOVs* in their pink shorts and muscle shirts, tourist families there for the whale watching and seafood (some of whom clearly did not get the memo), and the laborers that follow tourists: the bartenders, restaurant servers, and entertainers (not that any of these categories are mutually exclusive, of course).

In winter, only the year-rounders remain; many of the rest flee south to warmer climes to keep the party going: Puerto Vallarta, Sydney, Rio, Key West. Provincetown’s sibling city is Key West; poised at the west end of the Florida keys in wonderful point symmetry with its counterpart at the East end of Cape Cod, far to the north.

Michael and David Harkins

Michael loved gay culture and was a student of it. He introduced us to Rocky Horror and John Waters at probably too-young ages (not being a parent himself, he often misgauged these things). He adored Camille Paglia and her analysis of the camp of it all (his interview of her was a personal high point in his scholarship for the Gay and Lesbian Review). He openly fretted about what the mainstreaming and acceptance of gay people in America would do to gay culture. When gay marriage came to Massachusetts he was thrilled but equivocal: he joked that it broke up half of all the gay and lesbian couples in Provincetown, suddenly forced to have “the talk” about their long-term expectations. He wanted no part of it himself: he half-joked “Why would I want to take part in that failed heterosexual institution?”

Which is not to say he was queeny or fringe; he was mostly a paragon of the straight-laced Harvard professor. Yes, he wore a mop in the 60’s, but he was ultimately his British mother and army-officer father’s son, monogamous and conventional (I’m sure it helped that they accepted his sexuality as soon as he came out, around college). Michael was in awe of the heroes of Stonewall, but made sure I knew that it was suit-and-tie-wearing Frank Kameny that radicalized them (I did not learn Kameny was an astronomer until much later in life).

The fifth poem in Cape Cod Light is about Key West in summer, about the beach, and of course, about the humans that walk upon it.

*GBOVs=gay boys on vacation; not sure if this is a common term or a Michael-ism.


Key West in July With a Nod

Wait here by this palm tree with its
Feathered arms pinned back like dog’s ears
For your enemies to make themselves clear.
In a few hours, the moon will rise
Between this and the next tree.

On the beach a man is walking,
Clutching a stick, dazed slightly by the sun:
He delights in the arrangement of things,
What he hears, what you lose in the breeze.
He strides and strides but never goes near the water.

Over here is where the lovers come.
They seek each other only in darkness,
And what they do doesn’t look much like love.
Appearance is false. The practical man
Allows: this making and the sea are the same.

Coral reefs have flattened out the water
With their toothy mouths; it prepares for tenderness,
How you can kiss a breast so many ways
In the sloppy arc of lust. Without a wind
The orderly catamarans are smug as clams.


The next poem is here.

The Edge

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley.  The other parts of this series are here.]

Race Point is the end of Cape Cod. Yes, you can keep following it back around, south towards the much calmer Herring Cove and into Cape Cod Bay towards Wood End, but at Race Point the winds and the surf are strong, and you really get the feeling of being at the end of the world, where the land meets the sea. Herring Cove is the edge of the Cape, a long beach you can drive right up to.

Geography of Provincetown. Race Point is in the upper left. Miller Hill is the red marker at upper right, walking distance from downtown. The breakwater runs north-south from the southernmost part of Provincetown to Wood End.

Further back down the cape, is Cape Cod Light (“Highland Light” is its formal name) in the next town down, Truro. On the drive to Provincetown through Truro you pass long rows of white beach houses for rent.

Life is different out on Race Point and Herring Cove, and gives it you a different perspective on life than you have even in Truro or Downtown Provincetown. The fishermen have a different relationship with the sea and the town than the other Provincetown residents; the tourists tend to prefer the beaches downtown; but the “year-rounders” like Michael are stuck somewhere in between. They remain there through the winter for their own reasons, many of them to escape.

I’m pretty sure the fourth poem in Cape Cod Light is about Race Point or Herring Cove (or maybe not—the fishermen he mentions tend to be found at the wharfs downtown). Either way, it’s certainly about the shores of Provincetown, and about those in-betweener year-rounders like Michael who get to define themselves as they like.

Michael on the beach, I would guess Race Point.

[The Edge first appeared as Citizenship in Several Worlds in Poetry Northwest.]


The Edge

At the edge, you can look back over it all
And take things into account. The sea will help you
If you choose your angle right: foldings and foldings,
The hands
Sealing a package never to be opened again.
All the connections that seemed so organic inland
Grow accidental; you can have your way with the sea
Where life is the constant victim, dismissing
The footprints down the track to the beach, except
You grow less certain. They remind you
As the seawater violence in your blood reminds you.
The parade of strangers
Pins you against the curt acknowledgements
From fishermen who have seen your face before,
And between them you float free, capable of anything,
Of producing a new self at cafe tables.
Creatures float by who have lost their reality at the edge.
They have stayed too long
Without any firm connections to the sea.
They should have wives or lovers
In white cottages. But ghosts are the unlived lines.
Our silhouettes are unlived lines
When strangers walk by our windows. Then they look
At watches, or adjust their clothes. We are looking
At lovers who are thinking of strangers.
They are easier to resist
Where the foghorns will sound after dark.

Reverence, a sculpture by Jim Sardonis
Whale Tales, a photo by David Atkinson


The next poem is here.

Stepping Across the Bay

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael loved Cape Cod, and shortly after my mother and brothers moved into his Brookline apartment he and David Harkins finished their house at the top of Miller Hill in Provincetown and he began spending weekends there. After retiring, he moved there full time, becoming a “year-rounder” (the population is highly seasonal). The view from his first floor deck is pictured above; the views from the top floor bedroom balconies are the best on the Cape, bar none:

Michael and Bret DuBack on the upper balcony at Miller Hill

Provincetown is a gay mecca, an art colony, and an old Portuguese fishing village. Michael loved all of its characters (in every sense) and became a central figure in the art scene, hosting festivals and helping run the amateur theater company in town.

Provincetown is known for its beaches, and one of the amazing attractions is the breakwater that runs from “P-town” to nearby Wood End and Long Point, the end of Cape Cod. During low tide, you can walk along it or upon it all the way across. It’s an arduous mile, and you have to watch every step lest you slip or twist your ankle, but worth the trip.

The third poem in Cape Cod Light is about a walk across Cape Cod Bay to Truro, the return home to Miller Hill, and about the youthful experiences that made him fall in love with Provincetown in the first place. I suspect it’s a metaphorical journey, a mix of the breakwater walk and an imaginary journey into the past.

It’s also about the Cape’s ghosts—the memories of the terrible loss and devastation gay men that lived through the 80’s and 90’s carry.

Michael on the beach in his youth


Stepping Across The Bay

Today I walked across the water from Provincetown to Truro.
Sinking wasn’t a problem, it was
Making sure I got all the colors right, skipping
Over the cracks and respecting with my feet
The lines between pale green and white, deep blue and seaweed purple.
When I got to Truro, nuzzling the beach, I met
All the old friends who used to live there in the seventies.
We did great drugs, and cooked, and laid on the lawn.
Only a handful of these people will be alive
When I take a boat back, and climb to the top of the hill.


The next poem is here.

Body Knowledge

[This year is the 20th anniversary of Cape Cod Light by Michael Hattersley. The other parts of this series are here.]

Michael taught me about etymology. He taught me how many words in English have synonyms of different origin, from the Germanic and from the Latin. Veal and lambcardic and heartcerebrum and brain. The Latin often feels flowery and poetic, the Germanic feels forthright and staccato; but he also taught me how English’s fusion of the two traditions allows its poets to transition between the two modes for rhythmic effect, as with Eliot:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

Michael presenting the rings at my wedding.

Michael had a PhD in English literature; his dissertation was on difficult poetry (Poets of Light: Ezra Pound, William Carlos Williams, and Wallace Stevens), but he loved the popular forms, too. He was obsessed with music, especially folk, pop, and rock; he was a huge fan of The Beatles, Squeeze, Michael Jackson, and (above all) Paul Simon; he listened to their albums over and over, studying the lyrics.

He loved poring over the historical Billboard charts and arguing about who deserved to be there. He never understood our appreciation for Billy Joel. He always insisted Bob Dylan deserved the Nobel Prize, but never thought it would actually happen (oh the triumph he would have gloated with if he had only known!).

Poetry and pop music for Michael was no escapist diversion. The second poem in Cape Cod Light is dedicated to the great American poet John Ashbury, and is about the ways that poetry defines and humanizes us.

In Body Knowledge Michael muses how, from their accidental origins millennia ago to their pleasing groupings as they pour off the pop charts, words shape who we are as a species, a culture, and individuals.

The process is not neat: they smack into our senses, our interiors are stung by their hard cores and ragged edges, vestiges of the natural selection of etymology. But that’s how they get through to us, if we are willing to let them, and how they slowly mold us, heal us, and prepare us the for what the future folds.

[Body Knowledge first appeared in Poetry: A Magazine in Verse.]


Body Knowledge

(to John Ashbery)

These chose to be passed on
Because of how they sounded in the ear
And how practical they proved in daily life
Before they were frozen into print.
Now we’re stuck with them,
And their fragments fly about us, all
Hard cores and ragged edges. Because their teeth
Remind us of jigsaw puzzles doesn’t mean they fit,
Although ultimately, no doubt, they do, and even now,
Words from the latest song about failed love
Snap together with what some shepherd chanted
Near the Mediterranean, some forgotten summer,
To reveal the root of last week’s feelings. Then, I wondered
About your body while you were out of my sight,
And reviewed the boy whose T-shirt pictured a galaxy
With an arrow labeled: You Are Here. It was not so true
As sound passing from without to within,
With its body knowledge of distance and echoing space.

Stung by words and tunes,
Our interiors shower crystals of sentiment, their paths
Leave traces against the black, and the debris
Drifts, piles up in corners like snow. We fill up
Until we die in the extravagance of experience
That has been lavished upon us. If they can be deceived,
The senses cannot lie; they have been shaped
By what smacks against them. They give what they get.
The necessary delusion: this clean line between life and death.
The danger: that we will recognize the stones are doing their part
And lie down among them. These old songs
Feature the landscape and vanish. If we can remain
Vulnerable to each tone as it passes,
The hollow in our heart
That feels now like an avoidable sadness
Will grow vaster and vaster, until it contains
Every seed of tomorrow’s arrival.


The next poem is here.

Thanks But I’m


Last month marked the 20th anniversary of the publication of Cape Cod Light, a book of poetry by Michael Hattersley, who was my uncle. The cover is a painting by his father, Van, after a painting of Cape Cod Bay.

MICHAEL E. HATTERSLEY

You’ve probably never heard of it. It had a small run, and it’s not in print, so you can’t get a copy even in today’s age on on-demand printing (perhaps someone knows how to change that?).

But in my family we all have a copy, and when one of us quotes a favorite passage the others usually recognize it.

Michael would have been 70 for most of this year, which was an age he had no interest in experiencing. His friend Richard Schneider wrote a piece in memoriam Michael in the Gay and Lesbian Review, where Michael was a frequent contributor. It wonderfully captures what it was like to know Michael. After school in his smoke-filled room in my family’s condo in Boston while the MacNeil Lehrer News Hour droned in the background, and in long discussions over the holidays under the cathedral ceiling in his living room in Provincetown, he taught me what it meant to be an academic, a thinker, and a moral being.

The first poem in the book was written the Christmas before the book was published, and is about turning 50 (a birthday less than a decade in my own future.) His cranky impatience with the ritual commemoration of the passage of time is interrupted by one of his cats—a metaphor, perhaps, for his impulse to write the poem, or the book. It ends in haiku-like meditation on the ambience of winter on the Cape.


Thanks But I’m

Just as happy being left alone here
Believing all dates on the calendar
Haven’t been labeled yet. Today is:
Inventing your birthday again for the fiftieth time
Unless it can be resolved by stealth.
But wait. A large animal
Has entered the picture, intent
On bearing witness by its presence.
It composes itself like a cat,
Means: late in the year,
Evening. Final quarrelsome squibs of sun.
Make something permanent of, say,
The heat cranking up,
A snowplow grating by in the dusk.


The next poem is here.