Two Primitive Nocturnes
All night the rain has argued with the wind.
A balloon turns at its mooring, as if adrift
in the hushed pillowed weather of my head.
Our foxes hide as the dawn’s throats wake.
Each night all a cabinet’s drawers hurtle
open, its filing flung as if wind-blown.
A twisted aerial crooks to a sinking signal.
I dig out my heads from a light dung loam.