by Renwick Berchild

Grasses bob, the trees press, expand; press, expand as lungs.
Loyal speaker, who spake the first murmurings – whistler at the window.
What’s that? Faces stack, knotholes of wisps in the darkness,
agape and wakeful just as I, truculent foreheads, lined lips, I’ve a wife
who died, is she there? Another unholy moaner outside, watchful.

Whistler at the window; See the spinning? Hear the hive? Let a demon
hush its language to you for awhile. Let us in – let us in! I’ve a potion
in my eye, an incantation beneath my fingernail. He lies – he lies!
Children are burning in the cold – let us in, let us in, let us in in in!
Why bake bread when you can steal it? Give us a bed to rest our lives.

Snake winding round the globe, grey cloud a turret on the night’s mount
gliding across the mirror black, little woman set, six arms weaving
at the loom with superb finesse – but the hisser? Just a tail
slick as glass, sliding in its yowls, rabbit whining all through the twigs;
nimbus jugular ripe for tearing, a spilling of rain; whistler sends regards.


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