我在这血淋淋的水圈里打滚，投出我所喜欢的鱼(耶和华的弓确实没有悬挂金罐来支撑两端);只有血口虹鳟鱼上钩了。他们在我的帆布卷轴上扑腾，直到飞蛾腐蚀了它不稳定的布。告诉日子的日历;一块手绢，挥去蚊虫;一张没有塞满暴风雨的沙发，一只胳膊上抱着一瓶酒;装满虫子的威士忌酒瓶;还有睡裤:这些词适合形容在老年人的肚子里沸腾的愤怒吗?从前钓鱼是兔子的脚——啊，风吹冷，啊，风吹热，让太阳呆在里面，或者太阳出来:生命在抹香鲸的喷水上跳着吉格舞——渔夫流畅而淫秽的渔获使他的良心保持清白。孩子们，狂怒的记忆流口水于昔日的辉煌。 Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls Its bloody waters into holes; A grain of sand inside my shoe Mimics the moon that might undo Man and Creation too; remorse, Stinking, has puddled up its source; Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage. This is the pot-hole of old age. Is there no way to cast my hook Out of this dynamited brook? The Fisher's sons must cast about When shallow waters peter out. I will catch Christ with a greased worm, And when the Prince of Darkness stalks My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . On water the Man-Fisher walks.