On the roof its drone
is the horizon drawing closer for a
kiss, for an embrace whose message is,
whose muscle is the comfort of,
the family of,
the sociability of being mortal.
Outside, the leaves have multiplied its pitter
into the stuff of plainsong.
So many oceans to be spoken of.
Such soft ovations numbering
innumerable names for hush.
Who understands this tongue? No one.
No one and no one and no one.