George Smiley

in the cornfield along with the husks and splintered baseball bats
(I almost said smitten, as though late p.m. in October
were the moon and not just a windy compound)
and the risk-tolerant deer, woodchucks, crows, and occasional wild turkey
all of which darken perceptibly but don’t stop. Reading stops.
Like the active voice which the French use for weather (“Il fait ... ”)
so the subject takes on a cloudy presence but no reference,
sans agency sans intrigue sans whereabouts.

More Poems by Charles North