The syllable he had sought
All of his life without knowing it,
A force of breath, a release of need
Trapped too long behind the tongue,
What would become her name for him
Spoken for the first time, a song, a call,
The wild cry of a spiraling hawk,
A primeval force that rent the sky
And conjured storms.
The night was heavy with thunder.
Her hair across his chest
Was the colors of lightning.
–an exposition on a Wallace Stevens poem of the same name
