(tired and high-pitched)
Ghosts have been tied into the trees.
At dawn they pivot
In the wind slowly.
Where the moon windows in
I am of those
Who can’t stand it
Kept awake, humming with trucks
While anything lunar
Won’t rut, ruminates. Overhead, uh-hunh—
Days, the neighbor’s girl plays a game: what is?
What is dusk, she says, as the sky
ends it begins.
I play myself. What is death? What’s poetry? What
Is time? Time needs no hanky, time blows by
the Kleenex flowers. Or time’s
so slow, starry-cold, even is cold
and sure, little admonishments.
Were you awake all night?
I was. I was awake all night.
Copyright © 2014 by Kate Northrop. Used with permission of the author.