Cylinder Four: That Patter

that patter of night is a moth at the window;
beating its wings beats it fingers it
frustratedly

it has had a long day or a dry case—a dry case
of blues of sleep and you have eagerness
that breezes away

that patters against the window, chasing light
other side, a family home, a warmth;
no bats there

Up down or down or up the strings the wings go;
antennae flutter constantly but a love
you resisting lover

window—a smoker arrives to pleasure the air
with his final day’s tobacco; at last
he is in

Sunday, June 30

That Patter

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