Moon, before the Morning Chills

I am awake

in the earliest morning

and the only blush

in the sky

is the wake

of the waning moon

so I think

of James Wright

who one day

was afraid of dying

and yet another night

was in love with you,

moon,

in a "sky full of laurels and arrows."

It was not summer—

or was it always

summer?—or

always,

in the earliest morning—

when I am, as usual,

awake:

November—

and the moon

is folding up roses

before it sets

in a sky that has forgotten

to be bleak

and I have no idea

whether I should

be afraid,

or not.