James Arlington Wright (13 December 1927 – 25 March 1980 / Ohio)
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
Comments about this poem (Beginning by James Arlington Wright )
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