名人诗歌|Evening Walk as the School Year Starts

When was the last lobotomy， I wonder？

Too late for Carl at least， whom it's all but hopeless

to think of as a whipsaw of hateful passion

that would if it could have torn up his mother and father，

mild as they are； but that's how old villagers say

Carl acted before he was cut. Their smiles are rueful.

They shake their heads， subtle. A raven^{2， unsubtle，}

grates from a hemlock^{3 as Carl steps into sight.}

His wave's familiar： he jerks and drops one palm.

How old must he be？ He's ageless. His eyes are empty-

the operation. He turns now： ninety degrees，

then ninety again like a sentry^{4， the other way.}

He turns the same on each warm evening， retreating

past the house of our mutual^{5 neighbor， who will not speak}

to Carl's father， for reasons likely beyond recall.

It seems a shame not to edit grievances^7.

It's some awful stink^{8 nearby that draws the raven，}

but the rest of the world seems fixed^{9 on the morbid10 too：}

a squirrel keeps pouring spruce cones^{11 down at me；}

a gall-blighted butternut groans^{12； the broadleafs wilt13；}

there's a pair of toads^{14 at my feet that wheels have flattened15}

side by side， like cartoon icons^{16 of failure；}

mosquitoes strafe me， a mammoth^{17 dragonfly-}

one of the season's last-attacks a moth¹

so close to me I can hear the fatal click.

The other day a son went off to college.

His mother and I are quietly beside ourselves.

We embrace each other harder now， and vow^18，

as one vows^{19， to love our children harder too.}

Though I hum to distract myself， the raven pes

loud as gunfire through brush to its mess. I jump，

but Carl doesn't seem to hear. I watch him limp

to his family's drive-then again that sure right angle.

Like him， our family finds a virtue^{20 in order：}

we rise at six to eat our breakfasts together，

then make a certain sandwich for one of the girls，

a certain one for the other； we leave at seven；

we gather the girls promptly^{21 at end of school.}

Carl opens his door and shuts it-click-behind him.

It's after Labor^{22 Day， it's end-of-summer，}

it's another season upon us. Now he scolds me，

that squirrel on his branch， his store of weapons gone.

Why me， dumb brute^{23？ I haven't done anything wrong，}

I've got no grievance^{6 with him-not with anyone really.}

The darkness deepens， Lord with me abide^24.

The wishing star is not enough to light

the space around me while this bit of hymn^{25 from my schooldays}

plays， while daytime's creatures crawl to cover，

and night ones， having no choice， confront the night.