The Fathers

Our fathers all were poor,

Poorer our fathers' fathers;

Beyond, we dare not look.

We, the sons, keep

Of tarnished gold that gathers Around us from the night,

Record it in this

That, when the line is drawn,

Credit and creditor gone,

Column and figure flown,

Will open into light.

Archaic fevers

Our healthy flesh and

Plumped in the passing

And fed with pleasant food.

The fathers' anger and

Will not, will not

And leave the living alone,

But on our careless

Faintly their furrows

Like veinings in a stone,

Breathe in the sunny

Nightmare of blackened bone,

Cellar and choking cave.

Panics and furies

Through our unhurried veins,

Heavenly lights and

Purify heart and eye,

Past agonies

And lay the sullen dust.

The angers will not away.

We hold our fathers' trust,

Wrong, riches, sorrow and

Until they topple and fall,

And fallen let in the day.