The Animal

And if wind runs through
the leaves on each tree like a brush

and night exhales the sound
of water I hear myself breathe

And if I wake in the middle of the night
my head throbbing and if

I touch myself not knowing what
to do and the pain leaves if only

until the morning what have I
done thinking of no one

If the voices I hear outside
my window cease I am kept

awake by a deeper silence
I cannot touch any more

than a woodpecker can wichstand
its need for the sake of what

it receives Cobwebs mingle
with what spiders have made

and the trees keep dropping
the seeds from which they came

if only in my imagination if only
at first before I see the animal

the animal is real