Again, the hollow night is knocking against br My fiery eyes: This sun does strange things to the earth, br As it sinks- No one escapes the depths of the night, br After all the sun is just a sliver of glass in the west br Cutting between the pine bows and my tired though insouciant wings- br br The dogs are with me as we begin to sink in unison. br The little one howls, the big one yawns, and I ask them br If they can smell her in the distant perfume over the lazy hills: br Her eyes, her eyes like moonlight in a dream’s pool br When nothing exists in the mirror but art, br And I cannot really say who she is, but my primary sadness, br The constant of the dirge, and the well which maintains br Words in me- br br When night is fallen and she is asleep, or as the day is yawning br The drooling dawn, and I am asleep in an Arizona lullaby of br Hooves crunching in the last of winter’s crinoline, br With my ancestors up on the hill swaying not a lick, br Remaining the constant puzzles of the livings furtive pulse; br I search for her in the cool valley, in the lines of shadows br Beneath the quiet cliffs, and only the footsteps speak before br The fiery motes awakenings, and when I stop to listen br If she is my predator or my prey, br Then there is not another sound at all br But for the knelling of the day, br br And the postures of arrowheads like fiery directions which br Once tasted the hunted ribs, br And if one should slide into her like a growing pain in br The middle of an exam, then my eyes should linger upon the br Eastern plains and tear, because I imagine all I am br Is but her untouchable wound.