The Grave, The Mine
Taking off from the city
at night, from the
airplane, I look at streetlights
below: hovering unfixed
sockets of light.
Then it is black beneath me.
A pair of headlights
veer slowly along a macadam
country road,
far from pianos and theaters.
Women are leaning back in taxis
Men stoop into taxis after them
and enter the well, the
grave, the tunnel, the mine
of fur and scent.
.
by Donald Hall
from Poetry Magazine