Classic Poem

Not to be seen ... Not to be seen ...
We can hardly conceive
such a curse on the light,
such a love of oblivion, as
in the weasel's dense muscular
bolt from the highbeam;
the fox's flattening cringe
into his shadow; the rac-
coon's shambling retreat
on the road-shoulder, his coat
humped up over his head. They mean

not to be there, or anywhere; hence
are the night's minions — and all
the more if there's no moon
and a black cloudcast, so
that by padding upwind and with care
they're extinguished in five senses. With
what an ill grace they incarnate
again in the glare like borers
wedged out of a blind heartwood
to unwelcome apocalypse; with
what relief, evidently, re-enter
such a void as our vanity,
its name written in lights,
shudders at, and accelerates.











By permission of the author.