The Lord of Exit 23

As grey and gnarly sticks, your jagged throne,

thrust against the morning mist and tear it,

you pierce the frosty air with gaze unguessed

and trust that we commuter-fools can bear it.

We don’t look up: We’re blind and blank below,

as through a thousand sighs, with wizened eyes

and withered souls we fumble for our tolls

and go about the day not well nor wise.

We lurch in lurid traffic toward our rackets,

but you don’t mind that slugs can’t hear you sing.

All unadored, you work your wheeling sunward,

there to seek the worthy of your wing.

Big bird, brown bird, beam a blessing downward;

sail in silent spiral for your soul’s nobility.

Fly your holy arc above the featherless and feeble

and commute this working-day, and set me free.

Your grace, the soar and swoop of you, the might,

the awesome flight, your sacred scope and see

proclaim that you alone will reign forever,

O redtailed Lord of Exit Twenty-Three.