A creature made of bush and red dustkeeps licking its bones on my doorstep.I hear it wailing and thrashingwhile my sons sleep.I offer it water,               offer it meat,but it t h i n s t o p a r t i c l eand       moan                in half light.At two, the hour of the night heromand the new mothera cell of starlit eels thread themselvesthrough the beams in the ceiling.What holds up is frayed andnot quite.I dream myself intomoss wings and legs strong as morabut in the morning I am clay again,I am milk and dough and unhealed wound,I am only task, only matter, only massonly a rough gathering of others’ needs,loosely woven, frayed                  and oh, time ticks me wooden and                   threadbarefrom dawn til dark,      till the hourof the fawn                        till the songof the frog                          till thedeepest dreamwhere I am flying,         till the beastmade of bush and dust comes calling                                                   comes crying out                   my namein the hush of spent rainin the absence of sleep, in the violettunnel of stillness,while my children sleep, while all light thins,while I thrash inside the ache of being unseen.