Picking the Lock

Just the shadow of a waving bough
Moving the moonlight over your bed,
Lengthy fingers feeling for a latch —

The night with a black knife in its teeth,
Long as your forearm, serrated edge.
It’s nothing, or nothing much at least.

The wind snaps the occasional branch.
Something must be trying to get in,
Although there’s no reason to want to,

Really, in this corner of the mind,
Containing nothing especially
Valuable or original

On the few dusty old hardwood shelves.
Let the world be the world in itself.