Listening
A lamp's fine light
on the table, in my hair.
Even here a numb hum.
I cannot raise my head;
now I am ready
for the sound of milk
on a white cat's tongue,
the sound of apples on the tree;
one more falls.
A woodchuck's long sleep,
thinning clouds, stones
in a brook are a single
chorused note.
Nothing more.