On a black sky. It means everything

It cannot say. Look, it's empty out there, & cold.

Cold enough to reconcile

Even a father, even a son.

SOUTH

—for Matthew Graham

I will begin with this moth,

Its tan wings as unchanging

As the palm fronds that must still

Hang above the room I slept

In as a child, through the late,

Decaying sun of summer

Afternoons. I will focus

All my attention, now, on

The four round & delicate

Spots on each of these stiff wings—

Insignias darker than

Coffee, & I will not think

Of the way something dark, &

Utterly simple, this cup

Of coffee, trembles & then

Goes still a moment as I

Hold it, & stare past it now

A long time until I am

Remembering that woman—

How still she was the last night

We slept together—that house

We'd entered with the sudden

Giving of a door after

A year away, & a sense,

Overwhelming as the smell

Of dusk mixed with rain, that it

Belonged to no one, or rain—

The fields stretching away

On all sides of it, & those

Sparse, still trees, cottonwoods, in

The distance. And except for

A slight shuddering of hips

That said good-bye before we

Should have said anything, she

Was too knowing to talk, &,

After we had sighed, dressed, &

Turned carefully away from

Each other forever, she

Looked out a window, her face

Tilted slightly as if held

There by the quiet lights from

A town. Like light, she desired

Nothing. Sometimes, when I can

Imagine myself as that

Woman, I feel beautiful

For a moment, &, if that

Beauty continues, afraid.

It does no good to know that,

At eighteen, I was afraid

Of everything. That other

Fear is different. And whatever

else I left, I left

Her at eighteen, naive, free,

Riding the old Norfolk&

Western through Virginia

And Kentucky, & it was

Not even painful. I sat

In the dining car before

A crystal pitcher of ice

Water & a vase full of

Marigolds & daisies &

Watched the flowers & water

Tremble as the train went on

Slowly over bridges, &

A black porter passed, a fine

Sweat already beading his

Upper lip & forehead as

He moved, serene as habit,

A small brass gong in his hand.

And whatever youth I had—

Whatever went out of me

In a fake laughter as I

Sat alone, hearing all its

Hollowness on that train—did

Not come back in the one raw

Breath dreamed, & drawn in slowly

A moment later, the first

Changed breath of a man. And I

Have not seen that boy I once

Was, gasping over what he

Thought was only a girl's final

Nakedness, unless he is

Here, in the form of this moth

On a dark sill—the design

On its wings not wallpaper

In the room where we did not

Sleep, but more intricately

Conceived, a lost design whose

Silence & austere moons might

Stand for anything now gone:

*

I think of that train ride past

Shacks, past plantation houses