from Elizabeth Bishop's Crusoe in England
Well, I had fifty-two
miserable, small volcanoes I could climb
with a few slithery strides–
volcanoes dead as ash heaps.
I used to sit on the edge of the highest one
and count the others standing up,
naked and leaden, with their heads blown off.
I'd think that if they were the size
I thought volcanoes should be, then I had
become a giant;
and if I had become a giant,
I couldn't bear to think what size
the goats and turtles were,
or the gulls, or the overlapping rollers–
a glittering hexagon of rollers
closing and closing in, but never quite,
glittering and glittering, though the sky
was mostly overcast.
miserable, small volcanoes I could climb
with a few slithery strides–
volcanoes dead as ash heaps.
I used to sit on the edge of the highest one
and count the others standing up,
naked and leaden, with their heads blown off.
I'd think that if they were the size
I thought volcanoes should be, then I had
become a giant;
and if I had become a giant,
I couldn't bear to think what size
the goats and turtles were,
or the gulls, or the overlapping rollers–
a glittering hexagon of rollers
closing and closing in, but never quite,
glittering and glittering, though the sky
was mostly overcast.
A nice thought, "if had become a giant..." for what if we all were? What would we made of the small cracks in the sidewalks? The viscous spread of an egg white in a hot pan? Of rainstorms, squalls and sun cups?
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