Its terrible! all drip and listening.
Whether, as ever, its loneliness,
splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,
or whether perhaps theres a witness.
Choked there beneath its swollen
burden earths nostrils, and audibly,
like August, far off in the distance,
midnight, ripening slow with the fields.
No sound. No ones in hiding.
Confirming its pure desolation,
it returns to its game slipping
from roof, to gutter, slides on.
Ill moisten my lips, listening:
whether, as ever, Im loneliness,
and ready maybe for weeping,
or whether perhaps theres a witness.
But, silence. No leaves trembling.
Nothing to see: sobs, and cries
being swallowed, slippers splashing,
between them, tears and sighs.
