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Holed Up [Dec. 27th, 2009|11:56 pm]
It's never quiet here. Even when the furnace stops running, there's mom's oxygen concentrator still running. And there's this machine, of course, its fan whirring away. I have to go outside to find quiet, but I can't stay out long as I have to be here in case I'm needed for some task. It's cold out there anyway, and clouds are still concealing most of the stars. I'm already tired of winter and want to hear crickets chirping. That's a sound to be welcomed.

Sunday Verse


by Frank Bidart

You know that it is there, lair
where the bear ceases
for a time even to exist.

Crawl in. You have at last killed
enough and eaten enough to be fat
enough to cease for a time to exist.

Crawl in. It takes talent to live at night, and scorning
others you had that talent, but now you sniff
the season when you must cease to exist.

Crawl in. Whatever for good or ill
grows within you needs
you for a time to cease to exist.

It is not raining inside
tonight. You know that it is there. Crawl in.