Down every sight path, a distance, a blur,
At the animate edge, yet another eye
Between which, the silence of a landscape,
The tension of a gaze.
I have been admired, I have been oppressed,
I have been, at best, guessed at;
My cry becomes a crow's caw,
Another noise in the neutralized wilds
That, if we have any say in the matter,
Will not wake us from our sleep.
Still, through our teak and cedar walls we hear
Sound enough to just incite our anger
To send us lashing against ourselves.
The lonely crow, already flown away
Now under an eye that did not want it
But in wanting, got it
Too late.
