A dying firelight slides along the quirt <br />Of the cast iron cowboy where he leans <br />Against my father's books. The lariat <br />Whirls into darkness. My girl in skin tight jeans <br />Fingers a page of Captain Marriat <br />Inviting insolent shadows to her shirt. <br /> <br />We rise together to the second floor. <br />Outside, across the lake, an endless wind <br />Whips against the headstones of the dead and wails <br />In the trees for all who have and have not sinned. <br />She rubs against me and I feel her nails. <br />Although we are alone, I lock the door. <br /> <br />The eventual shapes of all our formless prayers: <br />This dark, this cabin of loose imaginings, <br />Wind, lip, lake, everything awaits <br />The slow unloosening of her underthings <br />And then the noise. Something is dropped. It grates <br />against the attic beams. I climb the stairs <br />Armed with a belt. <br /> <br />A long magnesium shaft <br />Of moonlight from the dormer cuts a path <br />Among the shattered skeletons of mice. <br />A great black presence beats its wings in wrath. <br />Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes. <br />Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip.<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-end-of-the-weekend/
