An Old Fence and a Low Cloud

This fence is more like a wall.
Its blocks are a sort of rust.
No one leans on it to talk.

The cloud, though, does look like wood,
No paint, not for a long time,
Just grey. No one talks like clouds,

Not here. No one’s here at all.
It’s tough to say why that is.
It’s hard to write in the voice

Of a world that is not us
And has no words that aren’t us.
It’s not the fence or the cloud

That care for a fence or clouds.
It’s us. It’s a shame. From cloud
To fence the link is light rain.

When You Can See the Stars from Bed

And don’t feel cold,
And aren’t in pain,
And aren’t half starved,
Or worn so thin

You risk a slide
Through the thread count,
Not to be found—
Then, then you’re good.

There’s not one thing
Else to dread then,
Not one you should.
Those are the stars—

You can see them.
You can be warm.
You can sleep then,
Fiend in your den.

A Soft Chirp (The Mole Rat Song)

I will greet you
When I feel you,
When I meet you
In the dark.

I will hope you
Hear how my voice
Could be your voice
When it’s dark.

I will fear you
For that one beat
You might not be
Lost like me.

You will chirp back
Or you’ll fight me.
If I know you,
You’ll know me.

A Word Strimmed Clean

Or parched in your teeth—

How long will we be

Toys and slaves of brains

We live in as guests,

Guests with the great gift

To both come and go,

To stray and stay in—

Used, kept, all at once?

You make books of us,

Books on books of us.

You say what we are,

And when you do you

Use us to say it.

You can live for years

With no friends but us,

Know no one but us,

None known but through us.

That voice in your head

When you read and feel

Like you’ve met a beast

With a soul like yours?

The beast’s you. The soul

Is us in some beast,

Flung from the beast, sprayed,

Stripped, shipped, and yet kept.