ALAN SHAPIRO

Anybody?

Some dead thing’s scent led me across the pasture,

into a drifting maze of early mist,

past where the horses graze, among the horse

scent, scent of grasses, in the tall grass, faint,

but never fainter, never less distinct.

Where is it? Is it there? And what? And why?

The day’s first quiz. The day, fairest of teachers,

patient because at ease, with time to kill,

floating the questions, letting them hang in the air

while far away across the valley a dog barks

and a child is laughing, and higher up, the mist

burns down to thin smoke in the crease of hills.  

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