Nocturne

That scraping of iron on iron when the wind 
rises, what is it? Something the wind won’t 
quit with, but drags back and forth.
Sometimes faint, far, then suddenly, close, just 
beyond the screened door, as if someone there 
squats in the dark honing his wares against 
my threshold. Half steel wire, half metal wing, 
nothing and anything might make this noise 
of saws and rasps, a creaking and groaning
of bone-growth, or body-death, marriages of rust, 
or ore abraded. Tonight, something bows
that should not bend. Something stiffens that should 
slide. Something, loose and not right, 
rakes or forges itself all night.