Is it a death of the self, or of the self's One projection, fatal ray, deadliest beam Unfolding from out of a stillness the self contains 5 Like scissors, or a dove's placid wings, abruptly flown From brooded palms, this quiet that returns To the stone house, empty and white 10 In a whiter air? Something deeply tired Has taken the place of the cows, Still morose, filling the entire structure With placid breaths, but what is it? 15 Is there, in this fix of airs, an extinguishing anguish That broods from the barn, the tired reds Falling in the air under a Dutch hex 20 And a soggy roof buckled by the weather, Something that ticks in the empty hayrick Or yawns from the creosote timbers 25 Leaning together a little in the space left By the solemn breathing of the cows?
From the collection "Constellations in December"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.