Nowhere to go

Nightbird

He goes all night from his silhouette tree—
whisker-will, jeep-too-jeep, sorryfeet, scree—
as zodiacs snail across an empty branch.

Is there anything sadder, or more dependent?
Besides some rusted locomotive stilled by rain,
or that crimsed barrow alone by the hens?

I lie here, window open, nowhere to go
but sleep. An albino cricket pearls her
song with steady polish, over and over.

Joseph Gallo
June 25, 2012