The intricately vast process has produced

a singularity which lies in darkness hearing

the whine of small owls, a donkey snorting

in the barley field, and frogs down near the cove

reciting Aristophanes. But what he listens to

is the dogs not barking. They are at each farm

in the valley and tell him what is out there.

The silence means no lover is abroad nor any

poor vagrant looking for where to sleep.

Evidently there was a lovely blonde woman

picking apples every cold morning last year

in Massachusetts until the snow came. The American

who laughed here in the summer at the mention

of Andy Kirk has gone back to Brussels.

“And His Clouds Of Joy,” he’d answered and they sat

grinning. He can hear himself not hearing Verdi.

The dogs do not know of the spirits and hearts

of the eight bodies and five loves he listens to.

They do not bark at the vagrant lying quiet

among the heavy grapes under the titanic business

of the fiery rest of Heaven. They are ignorant

of the gentle women who go on standing behind

the dark windows of the farmhouses all night anyhow.

Who can be sure of what else they do not bark at?