The sunlight burned like wire on the water, that morning the ghost ship drove upriver. The only witness was a Jersey cow. Florid and testy, a miniature industrialist, the steam tug spouted its fiery plume of smoke, and on the bank the dead trout lolled, beyond the reach of the fishermen now. From a distance the fish lay sprawled like sailors after a great sea battle, the masts and spars splintered like matchsticks on the water; the mist hovering over inlets, cannon-smoke drifting off the now-purple, now-green bloom of river. In shadow a train inched across a brick viaduct ruling the still-dark valley, as aqueducts once bullied the dawn campagna. The cows resented the Cincinnatus patriot, knowing they too were bred for slaughter. The morning was a painting: the battered warship hung with dawn lights like a chestful of medals, the barren canvas of the Thames, empty out of respect, the steam tug beetling to the breaker's yard. The sun lay on the horizon like a vegetable.
Summer in the Ordinary
Eppur si muove The iris wavers as the fox trots by, mornings in paradise, or what pretends by any other name to smell of meat. What were we then that we did not become? The water touched the image of the beast; old factories of iron muted the plain. They were of no consequence, those sun-dark days before the word fell hard upon the ear. The Indian corn, I mean the poppy fields, carpets of color sown and yet not sown, ideas that rose to metal and to brick. That too was passion. Naked, in need of need, we had heard of passion. We knew ourselves that first first morning when we woke, and died.