Down Evening Star Lane Ode The clear night and cold-encrusted star-cast clasp (those perfect lovers) and accept my heart's complaint— this throat express of impervious fog envelop bones where the wet sole falls and give nothing back Palinode You walk in darkness under a dozen brief metropolids of the astral map, listing Orion slavered by his dog— collared and leashed to exercise of the same errand that yanks you home like a moor-rope. One of the lamps stutters its light into the gravel now, and only an anxious den swaddled in unslept stockbroker blinks a phlox-frayed eye. You belong to this flickering sky. You have joined these prickly, agitant, prurient leaves thumb-worn and streaked incomprehensible: enough crickets for the Berlioz strings coax this covenant out of Bermuda grass and umbrella trees. Your sauntering pantomime at solitude steadies the balding broker, a bourbon for his thoughts (like his ritual bourbon in the den): your booming shadow up his walk is like the mask he wears to sleep.
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