Three-quarters moon, last of November, 5 o'clock afternoon Acolytes of the tactile, servants of the articulate.

The infinite festers in our bones

Sundown, and a drained blue from the sky so long, ghost whispers, lost voices. Dry wind in dry grass, our bitter song. Our song resettles no rocks, it makes no trees move, it Has come to nothing, this sour song, but it's all weVe got And so we sing it being ourselves Matter we have no choice in. Zone wind, wind out of Thrace were we elsewhere, which we're not. But would be, oak trees still standing where he left them, Orpheus, Whose head-bobbing river tongue has no stop, whose song has no end. For us, however, it's box canyon and bad weather and what-comes-next. It's wind-rasp. It's index finger to puckered lips. It's Saint Shush.

Even those of us who've never been sure what the definition of the lyric is will probably concede that this poem must be one. At least it's about someone's mood, painted from the inside, in an apparently impelled, spontaneous utterance. What is more, it's a lyric about the historical embitterment of the lyric