What will cross it – coyote, owl, deer?
A figure in the just sprung mist
stride across in silence? Will you only
see a row of stones beleaguered by
grass years, greeting coyote, owl, deer?
What will cross it when you are not there?
Off with thoughts to the dimming meadow, where
it may be void, and sit and let your bones
be numbered – while the moon slings over
from the east, like a streetlamp in the trees.
Off, off – mark the loneliness, where the shrouds
of evening fall into the meadow,
or you’ll be made to mark it mid the crowds.