THE GRADIENT OF DREAMS

Nests. And a net thrown
neat around my neck.
It is night the concealed
voices are looking for.

Words are working out
against the napes of cries.
A withe of moment draws
me to an unknown throat.

In the dark a white, a
grief of lost. What is grace,
how dead, in this wanting
to be enough to reach across.

-- Jayanta Mahapatra (The False Start , Clearing House, 1980)