Improv Week 9

History

Robert Lowell

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
Drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.

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To live with what was here,  History has
all we had too close, clutching and fumbling --
how we die, it is so gruesome and dull,
never finishing, writing unlike life.
Death was remote; Abel is not so finished,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
like skulls, his cows, crowding against high-voltage wire,
a new machine, crying all night like a baby.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the hunter's beautiful moon ascends, mist-drunken--
Two holes, a child could give it a face: two holes,
them a skull's no-nose, 'tween my eyes, be my mouth--
O in my terrifying innocence there's a face
with silver salvage of the drenched mornfrost.