16 LANGUAGE IN LITERATURE Inspiration The season's ill; Yesterday Deer Isle fishermen Threw Captain Greenwright's wreaths into the channel And wooed his genius for their race In the yachtsmen's yawls. A red fox stain Covers Blue Hill. Beaten by summer, I hear a hollow, sucking moan Inside my wild heart's prison cell; The slow wave loosens stone from stone By bleeding. I myself am hell; I hate the summer, But cannot move it. My shades are drawn, my daylight bulb is on; Writing verses like a Turk, I lie in bed from sun to sun There is no money in this work, You have to love it. On a dark night, MyoId Ford climbs the hill's bald skull; I look for love-cars. Lights turned down, They lie together, hull to hull, Where the graveyard shelves on the town; My mind's not right It's the moon's search, All elbows, crashing on a tree, Downhill and homeward. My home-fire Whitens deadly and royally Under the chalk-dry and pure spire Of a Trinitarian church. My headlights glare On a galvanized bucket crumpling up A skunk glares in a garbage pail. It jabs its trowel-head in a cup Of sour cream, drops its ostrich tail, And cannot scare.