the haunch of venison is hung high; our place of honor and thigh

this evening is the last
i will know, i have been extinct before,
and am i old now,
as the trees, as the moon
a violent clown sleeping and now
the question rings, like a dark telephone,
what is it now that i know, can i sense this thing-less thing,
shape a word around it and call it nothing- i know and
do not know, the moon, violent and laughed at,
drunk now and sleeping has been what i call
my heart, it twists on the river stationary, waiting
for some celestial fall
to bring a peaceful rise and maybe tomorrow it will occupy
the same sky as the sun, and lose its glow.