Uncurling up from my post,
as a quarter-time sloshing spring uncoiling,
to patrol and scope out,
like a half-sleeping spy out on the land,
out the glass, the dark beyond, and this empty house
that resonates on the rattle,
on the crunch, on the squeal, on the tickling cough
on the rattle-echo of this night,
up through the attics and the rafters and the roof,
down through the floor and foundation and deep, deep
into the dirt pulsing heart throbbing in time,
in resonant time, with this heart and the rattle,
with the radio static and the electric squeal
of crossing waves in the air, out there in the sky
like bright burning birds colliding and shattering
in concentric spheres of spark-feathers that crunch as they fall
in spirals, twistering down and teasing
at the throats of the dog, the cats, and me.
