By Robert Lowell
The stiff spokes of this wheel
touch the sore spots of the earth.
On the Potomac, swan-white
power launches keep breasting the sulphurous wave.
Otters slide and dive and slick back their hair,
raccoons clean their meat in the creek.
On the circles, green statues ride like South American
liberators above the breeding vegetation—
prongs and spearheads of some equatorial
backland that will inherit the globe.
The elect, the elected . . . they come here bright as dimes,
and die dishevelled and soft.
We cannot name their names, or number their dates—
circle on circle, like rings on a tree—
but we wish the river had another shore,
some further range of delectable mountains,
distant hills powdered blue as a girl’s eyelid.
It seems the least little shove would land us there,
that only the slightest repugnance of our bodies
we no longer control could drag us back.
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My Thursday was busy but nice. I had lunch with Karen at Lebanese Taverna, did some shopping, won two Articuno raids but failed to catch the bird both times, got some work done, dyed my hair, was chased down the basement by a cat who wanted to sit in the laundry basket, and watched the Nationals score a lot of home runs. Also, I watched some of the White House shit show, excuse me, comedy show.
Paul made cranberry chick'n for dinner. After eating, we all watched a screener of The Circle, which felt like a mediocre half a movie that forgot a third act. Here are some more photos from the Mets game last weekend, including some of the Hall of Fame plus Jackie Robinson rotunda, Flushing Meadows from the stadium, the rain in the lights, and the Home Run Apple as the Mets began their comeback:
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