Home Hole

Simple nightmares, simple pleasures,
Something scampering on the roof
In the middle of windy night
Seems delighted and seems distressed.

Look away from the Milky Way,
Away from the river, the ribbon
Of souls, into the emptiest
Part of the night. Listen. You’re whole.

The dragon hasn’t risen yet,
And the condor still flies away.
In principal and in folklore,
You recognize that a success

Doesn’t make someone wise, failures
Don’t make a person a fool, but
Success magnetically attracts
Lives to the lives of high-rank fools.

Go back inside, under the roof
That hides all your constellations,
You little troglophile. That thing
That you sensed scampering? That’s you.