The sun does not touch me, neither does the green,
The wind turns the heat but grazes not for me.
The dogs ride the lanes, lapping smiles outside squares
Of windowpanes which tow them from over here to there;
I wish to be a dog, for dogs know not of rage or kiln,
Who bay the moon yet see the dark and shoo the lonesome kin.
The night drags on and in between the hours slow then grow,
In Interstices, sore tendons pop, the cells have shrunk too small.
Now lichens; blue, green, yellow, red still grow despite the hand
That peels them back from rocks and limbs; a forest drowned in sand,
Keening high, keening low, it sings the only song it knows: no, no,
I cannot die, I cannot go, I grow to fill the empty chambers,
neglected for too long.
I hate the night and day and more, I hate the rising hope
Which feeds this restless hour but gives not light nor scope.