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"The Nightbird We Could Never Name"

By Eric RawsonPosted Tuesday, May 25, 2004, at 6:49 AM ET

Listen to Eric Rawson reading this poem.

The nightbird we could never name,
Who woke in full song at midnight
And stole us from our second sleep—
That happy idiot—has gone

With the turning of September.
The stars at the perimeter
Of perfect night shine faintly still,
And the dry aroma of grass

Drifts through the curtain, but the bird
Who made such music in his time
Has taken the poetry out
Of the trees on his way down south.

I'm not unhappy. I am here
With you, talking from room to room,
Listening to the radio.
I know you so well I could cry.

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Eric Rawson's work has recently appeared in American Poetry Review, Commonweal, and Iowa Review, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is a student in the creative-writing doctoral program at the University of Southern California.

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To submit poetry to Slate, send up to five poems and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Robert Pinsky, Slate Magazine, Boston University, 236 Bay State Road, Boston, MA, 02215.

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