Piqued,
inquiring twig at the glass you
scratch, prodding the
chest of the house, screeching out some
music.

You are in
the wind;
fretful thin creature you have
a case
of the din—

high and loud and all a racket,
pulling
out a shard scar,
sending my nape hairs on end you

haven’t a voice.

Just a cry.

Dreadful, howling,
desperate for rest;

as an insomniac prays for sleep
you pray

for death.

And

in the morning I’ll come out
and find you
snapped,

and

in my dreams
I shall hear your shrill
laugh. The hymn of the wood, always:

I go back to the earth. I go back.