Outside the sodden window
He is calling, again and again
Explosions of enthusiasm for one more day
His flock rests inert on the thick wooden planks
All save the outside one, who scuries to and fro
Trying to heed the call
Trying to permeate the wire
She does not know how to come in
The way that she came out
The humidifier whirs
Other sounds seem distant
Papered over by its continual conversation
Meanwhile my fingers are cold
All bone and stretched sinew
Still, sometimes, I find them beautiful
A man’s hand, she had said
Beautiful. That kind, almost stranger
Weighting my chest with her warmth
How large a day is
And here again is my sadness
Like a thing underground
A thing buried
A spring, running to the valley
Watering all these yesterdays
Here is my sadness,
That I would that you had come with me
And you did not come
But when at last you came
I would be alone
Why do we scamper then
Like that poor bastard of a chicken
We cannot find the door
By which we went out