Dari Kereta di Connecticut
Kapling Bengkel Petrillo, penjajah suku cadang mobil di pinggir kota New Haven

terisi ribuan mobil yang tak begitu tua

namun semuanya rongsokan, berkarat, dengan roda tanpa ban

dan kaca jendela berkatarak

Tak ada jiwa yang tampak, hanya sungai

mengalir pelan dalam lubang-lubang lembut

menabrak satu tepian ke tepian lain

Di kantornya duduklah John Petrillo, cemas pada bobot tubuhnya

saat mendengarkan radio, takut

pemain-pemain bintang tim baseball The Mets tidak berhasil dibujuk bermain lagi

sebelum babak penyisihan pertandingan. 
Berabad yang lalu di lokasi kota New Haven sekarang

dua suku Indian, Quinnipiac dan Pequot, meluncurkan sejumlah pertempuran

yang sebenarnya lebih pantas disebut perkelahian dengan kekalahan di pihak suku

     Quinnipiac

yang akhirnya menjual sebagian tanah mereka ke kaum pendatang orang Eropa

hanya demi sekeping ketentraman.

Tak jauh dari tempatnya, pepohonan pinus berderet-deret di atas bukit,

mirip suasana di luar Munich

tempat dimana belum begitu lama diadakan negosiasi perdamaian serupa.

Sulit dibayangkan keadaan di sini yang begitu damai ,

meskipun pepohonan yang merayap itu sebenarnya meniru

kekerasan, penuh dengan kehidupan dan tujuan yang lembab.
Semalam Joe bermimpi, dia membunuh teman lamanya,

bertahun-tahun yang lalu, dan berhasil lolos selama ini.

Ketika bangun, dia ingat dia belum melihat temannya itu

selama beberapa tahun, sejak sang teman pindah ke kota Mystic di Connecticut.

Atau apakah dia bersalah? Siapa tahu

mungkin ada darah di tangannya.

Kini, dalam waktu yang longgar pada dinihari, berhadapan dengan laporan-laporan

     akutansi

yang belum disusun rapi angkanya, dia tak begitu yakin lagi.

Inilah inti masalahnya, bukan bisnisnya atau berat badannya–

dia seakan-akan tidak pernah bisa klop

dengan dirinya sendiri. Setiap kali dia menemukan dirinya sendiri,

selalu kesementaraan, seperti titian di sungai yang sedang pasang. Yang jelas, dia takut.

Silau matahari menerang,

menggerigi benang asap yang timbul dari rokok Brancusi.


From a Train in Connecticut
Petrillo’s Used Auto Parts just outside New Haven

contains about a thousand newish cars

all wrecked, rusting, with tyreless wheels

and cataracted windscreens.

There’s not a soul in sight, just the river

flowing slowly in mild lobes

swapping one bank for another.

In his office sits Joe Petrillo, worried about his weight

and listening to the radio, sweating

on the Mets getting back their stars

in time for the playoffs.
Centuries ago near what became New Haven

the Quinnipiac and the Pequot fought  a series of battles

or skirmishes, really,  the Quinnipiac coming off second best,

eventually selling their land to some Europeans

in exchange for a peace of sorts.

Nearby, firs serry up a hill, just as near Munich,

where not as long ago there was a similar appeasement.

It’s hard to imagine, it being so peaceful here,

although the creeping greenery is a clear imitation

of violence, full of life and humid intent.
Last night Joe dreamt he’d killed his oldest friend,

years ago, and had been getting away with it all this time.

Awake, he remembers that he has not seen him

for several years now, not since the friend moved to Mystic, Connecticut.

Or was that a mistake? Perhaps

there’s blood on his hands after all.

He can’t be sure, now, in the wide hours

of early morning, unbalanced accounts

before him in a yet to be ordered pile.

This is the problem, not his business or his weight

but that he never seems to coincide

with himself. Whenever he finds himself,

it’s always provisional, like a ford

in a rising river. Most of all he is afraid.

The blinded sun lights up,

serrates his thin Brancusi tube of smoke.