Often I am lonely like Crusoe,
I peer out beyond the horizon for ships.
And a thought helplessly sinks
Into the sticky swamp of words.
On my wild island
Clad in skins of crushed hopes
I pierce the sky with my sharp eyes:
“Where are you, my Friday?”
Salvoes of despair tear out from my throat
And rumble into the indifferent distance:
Send me, God, at least a foe
If you can’t take pity and send a friend.
September 24, 1962