A Grave
In the cypress shadows a lapwing agonizes, bewildered by a rootless sky, in the bleached light remains scattered undulating visions of wisdom; while the marsh descends into flora, and the quiet whispers shake the frail paws of a tiara. You find luck in the spires of light when settling down on the earth, a certain disinterest lying in the hollow, a gentle circle of sight that is disheveled alongside the creature with limp eyes, it only wants to linger long.
- Marianne Moore