I'll start this with an ending, or something like an ending, at least there's tension and fading light. In the back field, our neighbor Lee's long field behind us, we were sliding along the muddy pasture road --the dogs, the boy and I all out for a walk at dusk--when a coyote, bright as tomorrow, opened and shut and opened again the woods' dark doors then stilled to stand and look at us. The dogs trembled and communicated with a quickening of every muscle while I tried just to read the animal's face. But all I got was the starkness of form: that which hunts before me, that which is not dark in the darkness.
NATHANIEL PERRY's book Nine Acres, in which these poems appear, is the 2011 winner of The American Poetry Review/Honickman First Book Prize. He lives with his family in rural southside Virginia. He is the editor of the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and teaches at Hampden-Sydney College.
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|Title Annotation:||six poems|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2011|
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