Wind from the stars.
The world is uneasily happy—
everything will be forgotten.
The bird I’ve never seen
sang its brainless head off;
same voice, same hour, until
I woke and closed my eyes.
There it stood again:
wood’s edge, and depression’s
deepening
shade inviting me in
saying
No one is here.
No one was there
to be ashamed of me.
____
FRANZ WRIGHT Four In The Morning
F/poems. New York: Knopf, 2013. p3.
