Sometimes strangers come,
hoot like an owl but you
let them in anyway, why not,
you’re not a mouse or a vole
to be scared of an owl, you
are the whole parliament
and sanhedrin together,
you are a human brain as usual
hungry for the next thing
to happen around you. To you.

2.
If birds left tracks in the sky
not just the snow, this would all
be clearer. But it’s left to me
to explain. Who said so?
And to whom? I hope to you
so you will be patient
with my explanations.

3.
Plural because there are so many.
History, Chemistry, Religion,
the whole junior-college curriculum
waiting for your fastidious appetite
so characteristic of the laity.

4.
Don’t be insulted by my song,
it’s the best we flightless fauna
can achieve, breastless mammals, men.
Language means to simplify the sky,
complicate the tangled forest,
bring peace to the writhing candle flame
and still keep its light.
Language is wind.
Maybe that’s who makes
that whooing sound at the door—
I am the next word that comes along—
come, follow me.

5.
But it’s you of course
to whom the language
tries to reach, touch,
bring together with
all your secret kinfolk
in this jigsaw puzzle
we call the world.
To bring you all your husbands
and a thousand wives,
tower in the desert, cave in the hill,
all your wishes flourishing
lush lavender fields by Cavaillon.

16 March 2021