Whom have you become,
groundskeeper, houndkeeper,
dusk and dawnsleeper?
Whom have you allowed
to keep hours in your
wrought iron mind?
How is your mortal gate
torn from its hinges but
by an act of flinging sky?
Who cuts the tributary
and how you lap at
the tribute they pay.
How you trunkclamber
yourself, through
with the breaking fear,
for some years-long
vista into which you
holler forth and swoon.
How you resigned your
set snares for the company
of forage so abundant
you forget the cold want,
the sapbitter taste of scarcity.