The ides of giugno find me reading— 
of all things—Robert Lowell.
The day is quite beautiful
and cool (this pencil much too dark).
Slept well. Refreshed. The
refrigerator is at last defrosted.
I don’t know what
moved me to remove Robert L.
from the shelf—I won’t quibble.
I’ve made my peace
with his equivocal hell.
His sad tale strikes me now
as having been not spiritually diseased
but tragically corporeal.
A hulking man whose heart in a bowl
had overbrimmed and was far too hot.