Summer 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1954 |

Pakim Pond, New Jersey

I. The water of Pakim Pond is red. From a distance, the sky's in the pond And the pond's blue. But scoop some in your hands. The sky blue, the water red: That would be loud, would be incongruous. But no—It has brown and a little blue in it like blood. It is not cherry or flamingo or rust, It is the wet darkness of blood That stains Always the bridal- and sometimes the death-bed. 2. One might imagine That crocodiles had feasted, ferociously. But not so, For there are no crocodiles in New Jersey. You might think that a drifting corpse Had bumped against a rock, or even coral, And been punctured Like a gigantic blood vessel. But even that would not color a large pond. (It is almost a small lake). It would make Only a brief floating island. And it would be unlikely: They would drag the floor and pull it up (It would be missing). They do not leave corpses around in New Jersey. 3. It is not foolish to conjecture like this, Even if we know the origin

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