inquiring twig at the glass you
scratch, prodding the
chest of the house, screeching out some
You are in
fretful thin creature you have
of the din—
high and loud and all a racket,
out a shard scar,
sending my nape hairs on end you
haven’t a voice.
Just a cry.
desperate for rest;
as an insomniac prays for sleep
in the morning I’ll come out
and find you
in my dreams
I shall hear your shrill
laugh. The hymn of the wood, always:
I go back to the earth. I go back.