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.