(After Wallace Stevens)
The falcon cries and
mourns the daylight gone,
and cats gone, and the sullen sun—
the sun sinking into flashing green
of envy, ‘neath the newly minted moon.
The falcon to its nest,
I know not where,
or name of falcon,
or name of nameless air.
I have often—I may always fear
the air that falls a blanket on the room,
and through the blanket, ‘neath the sultry moon,
the crying that resounds, and still sounds near.
I have often—I may always fear
the crying cries, the blanket of the night,
the night burning like a coal in heat,
the ghost moon that
lingers on the gate.
