Listening
I am known
for all the subject and matter
that I will never know.
At first light a cool breeze
drops the small humming bugs
from flagging brush and tree.
The stabled horse and I have not met,
yet in a distant stall I hear him wake up
from his statuesque reverie,
shuffle and fart – become a part of
this harkening.
The fields are covered in cuckoo spit
where the dew strings it droplets,
fungi creak open, spores dust
a fecund earth in heat.
I am unknown yet
just as the sky is, as it waits to be painted.
Listening, I hear through a keyhole
drilled through an echoing skull.
A cat wants to come inside
so I let myself out.
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