The Rats

The hunter’s moon cuts straight through the farmyard.

From the roof’s edge a shadow descends.

The window empties itself without a word.

Up the stairs, below one’s breath, the rats cavort.

And the scuttling whistles here and there

and the grizzly whiff of your human stink

gives you away,

the ghost in the moonlight trembles through and through

and their bottomless greed tugs at you

and the houses and barns comply,

pregnant with corn and fruit.

In the dark out there the icy wind thrashes and weeps.