
Evening
Slowly the evening strips from his finest cloth,
that for him a circle of ancient trees holds up;
you survey: and the realms from you withdraw,
one skywarddarting and one that drops;
and leaving you to wholly belong to none,
not so very dark as the house that keeps quiet,
not so very sure the Eternal to summon
like what becomes a star each night in flight—
and leaving you (to unspeakably disentangle)
your life afeared and ripening and vast,
so that it, now bounded but presently grasped,
by turns becomes stone in you, a constellation.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, my translation

Writer and translator Frank Garrett shops in Dallas, Texas, and is essays editor at Minor Literature[s]. His series Better Shopping Through Living will appear monthly. He was transfigured in Marfa by Irwin’s untitled (dawn to dusk) in January 2020.
