If A Tree Falls
grow up the legs of night.
My backpack is filled
with lint and stale biscuits.
Three times I call out,
Night, This Is Your Last Chance!
But there is no answer.
There is always a flame to walk toward.
There is always a hammer.
There is always the wind.
In dreams, I walk on a path
that sparkles in the moonlight.
In dreams my backpack is a cage of light.
In dreams, I call out to the night,
and it answers.