Poetry and Poetics
Me alone, fields on each side,
walking wrong, somehow,
on a road at night.
Silence, except shoeshuffle on gravel;
I have to make things out by contrast as I go:
Fence, field, barn, gate. What’s whitest here is road.
A far off porchlamp layers light as waves,
The hayfield’s stalktips crest and angle,
Swelling, then dimming, into nowhere.
I pass a house, where the sight of sudden color
—yellow panes of light—makes me form these words:
“like sorrows laid out one by one in squares.”
I think of the trappers and farmers who walked this road
years ago, alone in a darkness, listening, waiting
not for sentences, but for foxes, for rain.
© by Mil
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