It’s terrible!—all drip and listening.

Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness,

splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,

or whether perhaps there’s a witness.

Choked there beneath its swollen

burden—earth’s nostrils, and audibly,

like August, far off in the distance,

midnight, ripening slow with the fields.

No sound. No one’s in hiding.

Confirming its pure desolation,

it returns to its game—slipping

from roof, to gutter, slides on.

I’ll moisten my lips, listening:

whether, as ever, I’m loneliness,

and ready maybe for weeping,

or whether perhaps there’s a witness.

But, silence. No leaves trembling.

Nothing to see: sobs, and cries

being swallowed, slippers splashing,

between them, tears and sighs.