We have all been in rooms <br />We cannot die in, and they are odd places, and sad. <br />Often Indians are standing eagle-armed on hills <br /> <br />In the sunrise open wide to the Great Spirit <br />Or gliding in canoes or cattle are browsing on the walls <br />Far away gazing down with the eyes of our children <br /> <br />Not far away or there are men driving <br />The last railspike, which has turned <br />Gold in their hands. Gigantic forepleasure lives <br /> <br />Among such scenes, and we are alone with it <br />At last. There is always some weeping <br />Between us and someone is always checking <br /> <br />A wrist watch by the bed to see how much <br />Longer we have left. Nothing can come <br />Of this nothing can come <br /> <br />Of us: of me with my grim techniques <br />Or you who have sealed your womb <br />With a ring of convulsive rubber: <br /> <br />Although we come together, <br />Nothing will come of us. But we would not give <br />It up, for death is beaten <br /> <br />By praying Indians by distant cows historical <br />Hammers by hazardous meetings that bridge <br />A continent. One could never die here <br /> <br />Never die never die <br />While crying. My lover, my dear one <br />I will see you next week <br /> <br />When I'm in town. I will call you <br />If I can. Please get hold of Please don't <br />Oh God, Please don't any more I can't bear . . . Listen: <br /> <br />We have done it again we are <br />Still living. Sit up and smile, <br />God bless you. Guilt is magical.<br /><br />James Dickey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adultery-11/
