Saturday, September 29, 2007
copeland morris POEM FOR STARS
For instance, the stars, and the dark night in which they dwell.
The tree that cradled the house could not protect it;
And the night is embracing the rafters and smoothing the stones.
The naked face is almost speckled with starlight
And meteors and shooting stars are the last enchantments,
The frenzy of desire alongside the irrelevance of it
Spinning and spinning and spinning the constellations.
Intelligence, emotion swept clean with a broom:
A ride in the car at night, the smell of alfalfa,
The rain-drenched aroma, the song of a meadowlark
Shot down by a boy with a pellet gun, as it sang
To its mate from a mulberry tree, and the tree cut down.
How late it becomes. The stars can vibrate and twinkle.
And the boy can remember the words on his father's lips
And see but darkly a tilted head against the night.