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The Quarrel

 The word I spoke in anger 
weighs less than a parsley seed, 
but a road runs through it 
that leads to my grave,
that bought-and-paid-for lot 
on a salt-sprayed hill in Truro
where the scrub pines 
overlook the bay.
Half-way I'm dead enough, strayed from my own nature and my fierce hold on life.
If I could cry, I'd cry, but I'm too old to be anybody's child.
Liebchen, with whom should I quarrel except in the hiss of love, that harsh, irregular flame?

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