Sunday in Glastonbury by Robert Bly,
It is out in the flimsy suburbs,
Where the light seems to shine through the walls.
My black shoes stand on the floor
Like two open graves.
The curtains do not know what to hope for,
But they are obedient.
How strange to think of India!
Wealth is nothing but lack of people.
From “Contemporary American Poetry,” selected and introduced by Donald Hall (NAL Dutton: 288 pp., $10.95)