How I Night

The pipes scream in the walls
And it is not for morning
The tracks labor to bear the darkness
You forget the pen you hold all night
Was a bone, once, that held marrow
The leg of a sheep on a brazen fire
Fog comes down the hill
Behind the house at true morning
And you measure it in ells
The trees in wind imitate their voices
To spook you deeper and further away
So even they have a form of poetry
A survival mechanism that is more terror