Aug 212011
 
To lie where the river ends,
To lie in the velvet moonlight

Observing a landscape that is dry--
To hear the vulture's convulsive cry,

To see how slowly the river ended here,
Scraping dehydrated rocks,

The licked whiskers of its own
Envanishment, alone in being,

Is a kind of final sumptuousness
Of torpid nothingness. . . .

Or, more morose, more awful, to hear
The Rappahannock's oracular voice

Grow indistinct at the ocean's verge,
Suave murmurs gone down to a mauver

Sea, full of desolate cries,
Like a mother who loses her son

Among seas of soldiers embarking at the station:
Riding away, away, never to return

Even in flashes of untrustworthy thunder,
Makes a finish of heaven.


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