Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sometimes the light when evening fails
stains all haystacked country and hills,
runs the cornrows and clasps the barn
with that kind of color escaped from corn
that brings to autumn the winter word—
a level shaft that tells the world:
It is too late now for earlier ways;
now there are only some other ways,
and only one way to find them—fail.
In one stride night then takes the hill.
Posted over on News From Nowhere