名人诗歌|Drum

Leo's Tool Die， 1950

In the early morning before the shop

opens， men standing^{1 out in the yard}

on pine planks^{2 over the umber mud.}

The oil drum， squat^{3， brooding， brimmed}

with metal scraps^{4， three-armed crosses，}

silver shavings whitened with milky^{5 oil，}

drill bits bitten off. The light diamonds

last night's rain； inside a buzzer^{6 purrs.}

The overhead door stammers^{7 upward}

to reveal the scene of our day.

We sit

for lunch on crates^{8 before the open door.}

Bobeck， the boss's nephew， squats^{9 to hug}

the overflowing^{10 drum， gasps11 and lifts. Rain}

comes down in sheets staining his gun-metal

covert^{12 suit. A stake truck sloshes off}

as the sun returns through a low sky.

By four the office help has driven off. We

sweep， wash up， punch out， collect outside

for a final smoke. The great door crashes

down at last.

In the darkness the scents¹³

of mint， apples， asters. In the darkness

this could be a Carthaginian outpost sent

to guard the waters of the West， those mounds¹⁴

could be elephants at rest， the acrid^{15 half light}

the haze^{16 of stars striking armor if stars were out.}

On the galvanized tin roof the tunes^{17 of sudden rain.}

The slow light of Friday morning in Michigan，

the one we waited for， shows seven hills

of scraped earth TOPped with crab^{18 grass，}

weeds， a black oil drum empty， glistening¹⁹

at the exact center of the modern world.