It’s terrible! – all drip and listening. br Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness, br splashing a branch, like lace, on the window, br or whether perhaps there’s a witness. br br Choked there beneath its swollen br burden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly, br like August, far off in the distance, br midnight, ripening slow with the fields. br br No sound. No one’s in hiding. br Confirming its pure desolation, br it returns to its game – slipping br from roof, to gutter, slides on. br br I’ll moisten my lips, listening: br whether, as ever, I’m loneliness, br and ready maybe for weeping, br or whether perhaps there’s a witness. br br But, silence. No leaves trembling. br Nothing to see: sobs, and cries br being swallowed, slippers splashing, br between them, tears and sighs.