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-
Words and the Diminution of All Things
The brief secrets are still here, and the light has come back. The word remember touches my hand, But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel Against the occluded sky. All of the little names sink down, weighted with what is invisible, But no one will utter them, no one will smooth their rumpled hair. There isn't much time, in any case. There isn't much left to talk about as the year deflates. There isn't a lot to add. Road-worn, December-colored, they cluster like unattractive angels Wherever a thing appears, Crisp and unspoken, unspeakable in their mute and glittering garb. All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us out of the Blue Ridge. All afternoon the leaves have scuttled Across the sidewalk and driveway, clicking their clattery claws. And now the evening is over us, Small slices of silence running under a dark rain, Wrapped in a larger.