Last night I woke again
from fitful sleep and heard
the wind’s high whistling—
white-throated, mouth pursed
on its way from one end of that
unimaginable island called infinity
to the other. Which is to say,
I’ve heard before this song
it sings, always an octave higher
than the notes I ping on the rim of my
dented cup. And if it is indeed infinity
that feeds this cycle of wailing, this
song conjuring elegy upon elegy,
where does it learn to make things up?
Night opens its caves of hungry cries
in search of any warm breast
to drink from— With effort I remind
myself I’m not being called by name.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.