print previewback WENDY MITMAN CLARKE
Civil Twilight
When the blue heron
is onyx etched
upon blown-glass water,
one foot poised,
dripping, his stillness
is its own term of art.
Were he flawed—
his bill less than stiletto,
his neck a ruined column—
how could we know
in this moment
of edge and silhouette,
when the horizon
has claimed the sun
and the winter-bone trees
scratch the chiseled moon?
Chase your foolish bright sunsets
contingent as they are
upon ceremony and awe,
gaudy spectacle clattering
across the atmosphere,
shouting the obvious
as if it were mystery.
Give me this twilight,
this kingdom of almost,
of echo,
of uncertain
obsidian—
polished,
deadly. 