The Four Ply of the Heavens

The Day gathers itself
Into a bindle for wand’ring Night,
Who on a metal harp
Tuts out a bending note.

You take a bath in the ice where you slipped.
You watch the dirt splash back around each drop
Of rain. The impacts upset some loam
Beneath the ice and soil, and it gathers in a puddle

Dammed round with feathers.
The birds usually just tut around the lawn.
They continue to patter-off loose down
While scooping up silt in their beaks.

You feel better through wet eyes and when you move your head
The moon seems to swipe through the clouds like a flare.
We will start walking
Come promise of stopping.