23 September 2007
When I saw those thrashers rolling by/ looking more than two lanes wide/ I was feeling like my day had just begun...
A Prayer to Escape from the Marketplace
I renounce the blindness of the magazines
I want to lie down under a tree
This is the only duty that is not death.
This is the everlasting happiness
Of small winds.
A pheasant flutters, and I turn
Only to see him vanishing at the damp edge
Of the road.
Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960
-- by James Wright
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.
Behind a tree,
It lights on the ruins
Of a white city
Where are they gone
Who lived there?
Bundled away under wings
And dark faces.
I am sick
Of it, and I go on
Living, alone, alone,
Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves
Of Chippewas and Norwegians.
This cold winter
Moon spills the inhuman fire
Into my hands.
Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins
--by franz wright
I don't know where they come from.
I can summon them
(sometimes I can)
into my mind,
into my fingers,
I don't know why: or I'll suddenly hear them
they don't often come when I need them
when I need them most terribly,
--by Franz Wright
I was still standing
on a northern corner
Moonlit winter clouds the color of the desperation of wolves.
of Your existence? There is nothing