Nov 1967 • Vol. XXIX No. 5 PoetryNovember 1, 1967 |

Night Riders

The massive trembling of late dusk air Has drawn me from my house on this low hill: A line of helicopters droning south Rides one by one on the dark hump Of eastern woods. More and more coming, They strut their huge exoskeletal forms In the waning light, flash A shifting mathematical sequence Of pale green lights. Their rumble disposes all that is left of the day. An invisible sack, coarse enough to stand alive, Settles upon me, leaving holes for eyes. I ride into night on the cover of an old well, A raft of heavy weathered boardsWhich warm my weight with residual sun As I lie down with watching the sky. The stars are out; a new moon sails Overhead with the old moon in her arms. Miles to the south those whetting blades Sidle incredibly on a mild sky.

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Nguyen van troi

By Jean Farley

The massive trembling of late dusk air Has drawn me from my house on this low hill: A line of helicopters droning south Rides one by one on the dark […]

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