The shadows of the couple enter the dark field, cross silent as a seam having left at the center a white box, white as a box for a birthday cake. Inside, the baby. Abandoned there in the tall grass, in the night wind, he wants for everything: food, warmth, a little baby hope. But the world swirls around the box. The world like a forest goes on and paths go on through it each road leading nowhere, leading away from the baby. Still in the center of the field, his breath rises quietly. Grasses shiver. Overhead, through trees a sound approaches, like wings, or this time, scissors.
(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.