The nightwords

The nightwords speak themselves and they fall

            into the middle of the absent days.

The  nightwords sing you to fear and wonder, smalleyes,
            the songdollies count you to overtime. Let it go.

The nightwords count to forty-five and then they go rounding up

            daughters-in-law for the long widowhood.

The nightwords rhyme when they are not paying attention

            and they interrupt each other when they are.

The nightwords change every night but the beat, the beat

            says I am the nightwords, listen or don't.

The nightwords speak babbletalk when you look straight at them

            and blank uni-verse when you look away.

The nightwords are old words cracking and respelling themselves

            long before the reform is passed.

The nightwords don't remember tomorrow any better than you do

            but they run, they run, and they are going to get there first.