Tonight the wolves are prowling;
I can feel them in my blood-
and in my ears they’re howling
in wild rage against the flood.
The moon is in my eye,
and in its glow I’m overflowing-
drowning in the starry sky,
and clawing madly for a thing
which moonlight isn’t showing.
In naked wind I feel the sting
of sleeping decades in rotation:
I mark my plot, make darkness sing,
but summer, fall, winter, and spring
eclipse my shallow indentation.