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.