Help Me, Mother . . .

  
the wind blew the door open, then shut again     night rain
swirled in the street-lights, bringing autumn chill
the world yawned through the downpour, while the more I slept,  
the more awake I felt
I get up and ring my mother
she tells me: there are bird’s nests all over the ground in her yard . . . what my son mutters in his sleep     carries in it the pressures of living
nearing middle-age, my future torments me
there’s not much more I can let go of
and what I’ve got left to gain  
is all equally unknowable. last night’s horoscope
has also suddenly turned ambiguous
just like this heavy shower     blurring up my windows
so that I can’t see clearly the white inside, the black out
mother, did you hear that cicada crying?
so urgent, like an act of collapse . . .

HELP ME, MOTHER . . .