Under
Stars
The
sleep of this night deepens
because
I have walked coatless from the house
carrying
the white envelope.
All
night it will say one name
in
its little tin house by the roadside.
I
have raised the metal flag
so
its shadow under the roadlamp
leaves
an imprint on the rain-heavy bushes.
Now
I will walk back
thinking
of the few lights still on
in
the town a mile away.
In
the yellowed light of a kitchen
the
millworker has finished his coffee,
his
wife has laid out the white slices of bread
on
the counter. Now while the bed they have left
is
still warm, I will think of you, you
who
are so far away
you
have caused me to look up at the stars.
Tonight
they have not moved
from
childhood, those games played after dark.
Again
I walk into the wet grass
toward
the starry voices. Again, I
am
the found one, intimate, returned
by
all I touch on the way.
