Poem #2,715 | Rooks Said
Here – that itch to tap at it
& leave my ink-free words
in a charaded game [up &
not really awake at dawn –
yawn-weighted] – Again a
spectre-heavy night of all
that I don’t want to skirt –
that lie pit [round which I
slip & avoid looking in] – I
am a first-person word in
a dressing gown as rooks
cough up hard caws & my
tea cools – sofa sat – open
windows draw in cold air
& death-feathered songs –
I still write my book [so a
night’s visit by auld fools
is likelier then] – I will dig
out dirty sheets & rubber
fittings & laugh at it all in
a high voice – our history
is not our’s alone to sour
[by auld known knowns]