from the September Quartet

Iii

I live among the poor in spirit – thedying – among the meek, theinheritors of the earth: I livewith my neighbour, the fishseller,possessed by the song: I live with the wounded,the dispossessed; those aching for freedom,bound in spirit by too much love: I live with thefisherman, who ploughs the water, the mist upon hisheels, arriving before the light is glimpsed through thedark curtain, with seashells and the captive shrug;with the nightwatch coming home, whistling in hisbreath, the secret of the night cut deep into his mind:

I live with the chuckle of twilight, onthe putrescent street: the aching thresholdquaking with laughter –

Here, where the shore receded at twelve o'clock,and the barges decaying but like some ancient stigma, and theneighborhood urchins plying its bowel, diving for a coin –

Above, the sun is an inexorable curse,like a talisman in the sky;the mild echo of the secret mason, erecting apyramid –

amid the bloom of marigold, a September thrush,quickening the earth: it is among these that I live –among the inconstant flux, the coconut smell,the thatched synagogues, the swollen hands of Godgathering the faithful