William Wright


Dejection on Shawnee Trail

Near the creepweed, a road-kill hare, the head
fully detached from the rotten torso,
the ribs shattered, browned in sun.

No vulture, no alms. The trees, still
as graves, dark smudges on the milk-light
of afternoon. The sun, a blinded eye.

Soon, the moth-light of evening, when gullies
shine, ditches of pentecost until full dark,
when a single firefly coils like a ghost seed

down the dusk’s throat. Moments lost
in death and beauty, death and beauty.
Fine: Let summer break its back again

on hidden stones, the wilted leaves,
the trillion vines that search the dark
for something to clutch and conquer.






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