Heat urges secret odors from the grass.
Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill.
Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass.
Sunrise tumbling in like a surf,
A foam of petals, curling thousands, lightly crumbling
Away into light.
Little finger of fiery green, it
flickers over stone. Waits
in a weed's shadow.
Into this net of leaves, green as old glass
That the sun fondles, trembling like images
Sky is such softness, is such dark,
Mt as the pelt of a black panther is
In his den's bight. Under the mat soft black
Hell is not far below,
Not black, nor burning,
Nor even past returning:
Beyond the window the moon may be in riot
With the winter night. But your voice having ceased
In the room here, silence comes, barefooted,
Her drooping wrist, her arm
Move as a swan should move,
First singing when death dawns