Then, from a hollow tree,
a hoot owl mourned its cry
And as I turned to look,
I thought the moon turned, too.
Beyond the road, a skunk.
Within my room, a rose.
So I sat up, I think,
while the night spoke and spoke.
I hear the word incessantly
as a chorus
A word whose voices are composed
of all my years
Like a requiem long rehearsed
in every key
And begun the day of my birth,
inside of me
A word sung for my soul's repose
while I am here
An earthling, bent on a journey
still amorphous.