Emily's Tyger | Steve Reames

How much starlight would it take
to make you sore, shepherd, afraid
of the dark or of indifferent cold?

Awakened by the slap
of single-handed night, I shudder
at the prickle of stars still as air.

In the firmament,
winter solstice burns bone zero.
Terror spreads like glory in my skull.


Taken from the 1994 issue of The Wire Harp.