Issue 80, Summer 1981
—with only the cavernous house as a witness.
It nudges you from your shallow sleep,
it whispers love-mockeries.
An aching socket that must be filled.
Each of the rooms, it seems,
is clamoring for you!—and again you are a bride
of the house, a sleepwalker.
Slugs, flame-quick roosters, reptiles with smiling tongues,
the benign faces of strangers
appear at your windows.
But no danger this morning:
the empty house protects you.
Alone, the thimble-soul begins to speak.
It whispers Help me, it complains / cannot breathe,
there is reproach in its tone
as, kicked, it flies clattering
beneath the bed.