Scrivner's Pyre

Each night a space between the stars
abstracts me till I’m so transfixed with thoughts
I see one there: one star, miraging far,
for things that never were, or were, or ought
to be, or are.
                          I chased this space once, rode
my bike to willow groves. There hidden tongues
were whispering low: “our hidden boughs, they bode
to break out with this piercing sparrow-song:

We hidden things will always draw you on
And give you much too much to give to rest.
So sing with us before your chance is gone;
reveal the heart that’s hidden in your breast.”

I’m up each night; still no sparrow sings.
It seems you cannot hide from hidden things.