interrogates whoever walks
this shadow-lane, this hour
not reserved for you: who
are you to enter it?
Orion’s head over heels
above the road, jewel-belt
flinting starlight
to fuel two eyes looking
down from the air:
beacons in reverse,
since light pours in
toward her appetite
until she wings her noiseless outline
between our rooftop and the stars,
over this door and all the doors
hidden in the grass:
dreaming voles,
firefly province,
wasps in the palace
they’ve hollowed under the hill.
Mole resting his face against his splayed hands.
Perch, blink. Pose
the evening’s question
to the sleepless
while the moon if there is one
scatters islands
on a field of ink. Who
maps this? The owner
of the night looks down
to mirror and admit the hours
before the upper vaults
begin to lighten and recede.
Did you hear what I said,
a face looks down from the night?
Did who hear me? Who
reads this page, who writes it?
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