Casting a Reflection.
Trick of the Light

Choosing to Hear

 

The mockingbird sings all night

with an imperative that penetrates

the window panes, the walls, and by

midnight has soaked the whole house

in its intense variations. Sleep seems

unworthy: I sense an infinitive need: 

To witness. It’s roosted in the Silver Sheen,

a tree also sleep-less, night-blooming.

On the floor, beneath the song

and the tree, I reach up and open

the window, saturated by the sound

and the silence that surrounds it,

helpless and afraid: What am I?

Stupid and mute, and not the first

to lose my mind while being washed 

by complex beast-music: A will beyond 

me works that spell. . .I know too much.

But at least I know enough to stay 

silent, wait to say it until morning.