The sound of them woke me in the morning,
feet kicking up careful spirals of leaves
and lean, low voices under my window.
All the way to the woods there’s a line of them,
a missing boy overnight their care won’t solve:
the world is too small to search all of it.
I find one to say about the garden:
my dog died is all, that’s why the hump’s there,
but now outside I feel the evil of it:
while I slept, some lost flight into the trees,
someone’s son crouching silent in the leaves
but taken anyway by the wide awake.