Something Trapped Is Rustling There, But You Can’t Make It Out

Strange sort of light
In twilit grass—
Not silvery,
Exactly, not

Golden or brass,
Not metallic,
But what? No street
Lights on these cliffs,

The crescent moon
And pre-dawn glow
Rise in the East,
A weird mingling

Of wavelengths eyes
Can register
In the narrows
Of sort of life.