Classic Poem

Proudly the moon rides, crest-
ing and brightening high cloud
after cloud and letting each
go again into darkness, reach-
ing for other ones farther west

like a great satyr gal-
loping golden and insatiate
among abstractions of
flesh it can neither love
nor leave alone — the scal-

loped haunches, breasts and tress-
es endlessly coming on
yet immaterial
somehow to that medal-
lion of utter loneliness,

worn, circular and bright,
to a purity in reverse. . . .
O I have driven down —
with this companion —
many a road at night.











By permission of the author.