There’s a wind in the grass – 
Is there here
       a boat’s mast claiming my lonely night too?
                                                                        I see the stars
                    can’t be called hanged, exactly,
just hanging down,
                                  not over emptiness, but honest ground,
the moon trying the black skin of this river, black corpse    . . .    
                                                                                 But, even plainer – 
       I wonder if these words, my words,
will ever bring me fame.
       I have my age, my injuries. They limit me.
                                                                       I’m like some spook bird
I know, solo and roped between
                                                           where rotting happens and a sky.