Beginning
by James Wright
Contempary American Poetry
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
* * * * * * *
In Medias Res
The silcon fibers twist and spit
dropping the connection.
Blue flickering
scream.
An afternoon of thought and heart, broken
against electricity.
The strumming machine slips into heated dark
closing away a finger-typed world.
Sliding in the chair, the woman shadows
over the desk
her face disappearing in the wooden grains
of academic pursuits.
Molten fingers brush over mouse and keys,
marbles chasing the rolling sheen
of a whitening screen.
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