Kunitz, Stanley: 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?