What’s it like to land on a branch
With bird feet?
What does the branch feel?
It was nature
Asked human beings
And look what we’ve done.
I like the ghosts of Victorian children—
I like their slyness of sincerity, “please mister!”
No one has the proper telescope for “my” sea.
Sure, I want to speak for silence
But I wake in the night
To the sounds of branches—
They say write your own book.
I haven’t forgotten about the ghosts of Southwell.
In the morning I need to be alone
So we can talk.