Listen to Mary Kinzie reading this poem.

                        "Heard only in the trances of the blast"
                                                             —Coleridge

Moon rise, and no one wakened to notice how
Savage or hard the trances can sound from here
              Where light picks out the deeper patches
          Darkened by wind as if wind were knowledge.

Scraps rustle, stuck to a frozen canal where in
Summer, or later, there would be fragrances
             Moved upward, felt by us as living,
         Mingled with flecks of the chimney vapor.

Easy to think the cosmos grows poisonous
Or worse, while we improve: individuals
             Marked out, despite our forlorn virtue
         Eagerly wishing for nothing over.