The grief robin bubbles
     from *****, the sun’s blazed emblem—
           Morning comes in fits.

Scandent, white-blooming vines
     tickle gray’d limestone ribcage—
            This old house I’m bird upon.

People go in and out
      and the door is always shut.
            Who then, am I singing for?

My song is venom
     to visitors: Thee beware,
             I am a visitor here!