Lost Quarry

Ashley Kizer

The tall trees have been in my heart all day,
And the snow crusted over the rusty needles,
And the cold high stars,
And daylight stealing up softly
To thrust a gray nose at a shadow
New to the woods—

A shadow at last unpursued;
And the bleak Spokane, beating against its icy bank
Like the wings of a bird, half broken,
The blood-rhythm beat of a burial drum;
And you, lying there,
Lying there with the sky on your breast
Like a cluster of camass,
Sharing with trees their imperceptible breath.

And nothing, nothing at all, can tell me—
Not the snow, nor the stars, nor the buried pine-needles,
Nor the wounded bird in the water—
Not one can say
By what black trail you came,
Shy doe with doom in your gentle eyes;
Or of what monstrous doubt
You died.