Messages

Messages

The rustle of a leaf: the whispers come
Into my waking dream, I turn away
But the leaf chases on the wind.

Shut my ears? These spirit messages
Spoken in the trees or by the birds
In quiet places even follow me

To draughty streets where drink cans rattle
Or hieroglyphs form in films of oil in gutters,
Or spell out words from old discarded papers.

There is no escape, they lie in wait
These messengers for the small pauses,
The lapses from human business, the

Slackening on the grip on things. Sometimes
I look for them, strain to hear their calls
And find there’s nothing there, no songs

From insubstantial sources but only
The solid world talking to itself in tongues.
Is there anything to understand?

Incompetent linguist, my ear is muddled
Straining to catch the world’s song
Only dry noises or the faintest whispers come.