Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   

Down the ravine behind the empty house,   

The cowbells follow one another   

Into the distances of the afternoon.   

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,   

The droppings of last year’s horses   

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.


 James Wright

(hugh mentioned james wright after reading something i wrote, so i went to the poetry foundation and found the poem above, and i remembered it so well from my poetry class in carbondale, illinois, about 1982. i remember reading the last line when my bottom dropped out. it's swooning and sad and deliciously, happily indolent and wise. earlier on the pointers walk i was trying to recall wright's poems and thinking if hugh heard some echo he must have gotten into my spirit, and that's lovely, and uncanny, to be reminded and to remember. ha, i'm still wasting my life. thanks, james wright and hugh iglarsh.)