domingo, 24 de maio de 2015

End of sight - by David Ringsbee

At first I thought of the leaves:
soon only backlit, except for streetlampsí
ambient blank.  But then I noticed 
cars moving between trees 
and on the next block, porch lights 
and lighted windows half given 
over to blinds.  Finally the last
in the harvest of lightning bugsó
just one or two, really, like tugboats
into some depth (once a regression 
of poppies swallowed by the infinite)ó
went out in time to draw the ear in
to the soughing of the treetops
and a private plane somewhere,
invisible, pulling its weight.
And that pulled the eyes after it, up, 
beyond the darkened green to the smooth, 
featureless presence of the sky, 
until they were finally on their own 
and useless at the same time,
as if the end of sight were 
the point of sight.

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