Tonight, as I look up, the stars
hide themselves in shame. There is no moon.
The sky is black, like my desk,
nothing like a raven. The streetlights
look on the scene disinterested.
They have their own small gossips of the dark.
I came here to find the Lion, old
friend, but he will not show his flanks, his
paws, his shoulders, his mane. I
can hear him laughing from his hiding-place
behind the moon, nonexistent, under
the cold dead earth. The mountain is in front
of me now, a hole of stars daring me
to pierce it with my sight. The lion’s still
laughing; the streetlamps talk about
me amongst themselves, and go out. There
never was any lion, they tell me.
You only hear the wind on the mountain.