Fledglings of the Cymbal
Dawn, the ledge of day, is where
every dreamer’s reflexes are tested;
one misstep is enough. Each waking
is a fall from that high surefootedness,
a descent from grace. All sleepers
thread their beds with this steadiest
of paths that they may arrive at last
in the plunge, the giddiness of worlds grasp—
Now who shall lift his hands to show
an hourglass in each armpit: birds emerge
screeching, we devour his wormgroin.
His moist declivities scour our habits.
When evening empties the buildings of
what is tall in them, we will return
each to his roost, ledging and listening
to a percussionist lapping against lilypads.
~ ~ Bill Knott