The poem
1 Many animals that our fathers killed in America Had quick eyes. They stared about wildly, When the moon went dark. The new moon falls into the freight yards Of cities in the south, But the loss of the moon to the dark hands of Chicago Does not matter to the deer In this northern field.
2 What is that tall woman doing There, in the trees? I can hear rabbits and mourning dovees whispering together In the dark grass, there Under the trees.
3 I look about wildly.