Sometimes late at night
       

When trees speak in shadows,
I ask—

Is that me crawling out
of the hoot owl's moan?

Or falling like fish
upon the river
in the dead of winter?

Why do I wrap myself
in ruins?

And why does silence
curl itself into
fists that beat down
all that remains?

I want to understand
the geometry of stone
that rings my sleep,

to sound the choir
of crickets,
envoys from the dark muck
of memory, or
the land of the dead—

both parts of the same distant
song.

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Copyright © 2021 Peter Grandbois All rights reserved
from The Louisville Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission