The Awakening
I have tried
in the moon’s bent sphere
to be alive, and in the hung wild,
spinning free, the summer
in my eyes, the hard yew swinging
over the drunk sea and the sun
yawing in the young boughs…
But somewhere I had heard a question,
as though some bird had called it,
as though his beak my song wrung out,
tearing free the lost rib rhythm
of that dark place,
moon horn to blood born singing
the living scream.