Dear shadow slipping its soft
hood over our shoulders at dusk,
the insects begin once again
to speak: is it wearying to hear
their same recitals, to finger
those sharp edges of cold
whose only purpose seems to be
our unbodying? Everything wants
to be accounted for, to be told
somehow it is remembered
if not loved— even the two
pieces of fruit that darken
in the bowl are only teetering
from one kind of sugar to another.
In response to Via Negativa: Owls and rabbits.