James Merrill

About the Phoenix

But in the end one tires of the high-flown.

If it were simply a matter of life or death

We should by now welcome the darkening room,

Wrinkling of linen, window at last violet,

The rosy body lax in a chair of words,

And then the appearance of unsuspected lights.

We should walk wonderingly into that other world

With its red signs pulsing and long lit lanes.

But often at nightfall, ambiguous

As the city itself, a giant jeweled bird

Comes cawing to the sill, dispersing thought

Like a birdbath, and with such final barbarity

As to wear thin at once terror and novelty.

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James Merrill