- after Jane Kenyon

Let evening come, said a poet whose words
I loved much of the time; meaning the light 
         and the animals, the fields all disappearing 
in the tent that night throws down. One by one 
that litany of unclasping; the truth we know 
        is going to come. It seems easier to unwind 
the thread to the end of the spool—lie down 
with the wind, press accordion pleats to let out 
        the milk trickle of breath. And yet the fox 
and the owl still hunt all night for their young; 
water fowl drink the surplus shed by the moon.
        We push evening back on its cold saddle, we
turn its horse around.  We sentence it for the knee 
        that choked a man to his death on the ground.

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