In the chill rains of the early winter I hear something -- A puling anger, a cold wind stiffened by flying bone -- Out of the north . . . and remember, then, what's up there: That ghost-bank: home: Amchitka: boot hill. . . . They must be very tired, those ghosts; no flesh sustains them And the bones rust in the rain. Reluctant to go into the earth The skulls gleam: wet; the dog-tag forgets the name; The statistics (wherein they were young) like their crosses, are weathering out. They must be very tired. But I see them riding home, Nightly: crying weak lust and rage: to stand in the dark, Forlorn in known rooms, unheard near familiar beds: Where lie the aging women: who were so lovely: once. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN 'DESIGNING A CLOAK TO CLOAK HIS DESIGNS' YOU WRESTED FROM OBLIVION by MARIANNE MOORE THE HURRICANE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ODE TO EVENING by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) SONNET TO MRS. REYNOLD'S CAT by JOHN KEATS THE ITALICS ARE RICHARD GIFFORD'S by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TO A THESAURUS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 2. AND YET by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |