  Rattle-Snake Mountain Every night the sky grips my shoulder, in pain. The cows upon my slope Attack their blades of grass with less decision. The boulders reaching in to form my ribs, Are touched by evening dizziness, to dust, And lose their fierce pretence of hardness. Three crows in a row Search for clearer tongues, with steady discords. Man The nervous dissolution Which men call beauty stands Sternly watching itself. Rattle-Snake Mountain Evening, staggering under dead men’s tongues, Makes light of my loneliness. He comes like a madman dissolved Into unbearable quietness. But, drinking my vigorous muteness, He melts into that stream of seeking motion Which men call morning. Man You teach him to make his recompense A solitary unfolding Walking perilously Between the scowls of life and death. Rattle-Snake Mountain When he goes he is something more than himself. He holds a lean alertness That, green as any leaf, Takes the flutterings of life, unperturbed. Man Beauty is a proud stare Challenging all things to remove Their inattentive clamours: And some things bow abruptly, Timidly stroking their untouched skins. Rattle-Snake Mountain And thus evening bows into morning. |
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