East of me, west of me, full summer. How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard. Birds fly back and forth across the lawn looking for home As night drifts up like a little boat. Day after day, I become of less use to myself. Like this mockingbird, I flit from one thing to the next. What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four? Tomorrow is dark. Day-after-tomorrow is darker still. The sky dogs are whimpering. Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening up from the damp grass. Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day, Go quietly, quietly.
Charles Wright - 1935-
Littlefoot, 19, [This is the bird hour]
19 This is the bird hour, peony blossoms falling bigger than wren hearts On the cutting border's railroad ties, Sparrows and other feathery things Homing from one hedge to the next, late May, gnat-floating evening. Is love stronger than unlove? Only the unloved know. And the mockingbird, whose heart is cloned and colorless. And who's this tiny chirper, lost in the loose leaves of the weeping cherry tree? His song is not more than three feet off the ground, and singular, And going nowhere. Listen. It sounds a lot like you, hermano. It sounds like me.