The afternoon shuts its doors.
The heart tightens it valves,
the dragon maple sunk in its bones,
The grass asleep in its wheel.
The year squeezes to this point, the cold
Hung like a lantern against the dark
burn of a syllable:
I roll it around on my tongue, I warm its edges …
Charles Wright, closing lines to “Light Journal,” Zone Journals (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1988)