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J A N U A R Y   1 9 7 9

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by Stanley Kunitz

Hear Stanley Kunitz read this poem (in RealAudio).

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Also by Stanley Kunitz:
King of the River

Go to "A Visionary Poet at Ninety" in the June, 1996, issue of The Atlantic Monthly.

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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.
with whom should I quarrel
except in the hiss of love,
that harsh, irregular flame?

Copyright © 1995 by Stanley Kunitz. All rights reserved. Used by permission. As published in Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected (W. W. Norton, 1995).
Originally published in
The Atlantic Monthly, January 1979.

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