lights in the twilight, <br />lights of Solvay over the expanse of frozen snow-covered <br /> lake, <br />orange lights of the refineries, <br />yellow and green and red lights of the neon along the <br /> strip, <br />lights as if undersea, the argon just coming to exist, <br />all lights in the cold moisture of the grounded wind <br />staggering across the lake at twilight <br />are blurred, are meaningless, they call, together, <br />with a sound unintelligible and of no interest; <br />but in the slate sky above the imagined horizon <br />like an old lantern left long ago on top of a heap of slag <br />the evening star alone is bright and clear <br />and alone responds to this knowledge of death too soon <br />that comes in the loneliness of twilight and dying wind, <br />the loneliness of decayed and useless and ragged fear <br />and the soundless cry for a thing that has no name. . . .<br /><br />Hayden Carruth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/onondaga-early-december/
