WHAT BEAST IS ROUSED

by John M. Morton — June 2003©

This feral thing is at my outer wall. And claws it’s crackled coating.

Tentative. Insistent.

It scrabbles up my stone embankments And gropes their awkward slopes. It knows my weak connection, Pries at its protection.

Roams my outer rooms but goes no further. Yet still it roams and gropes, And hopes for what?

How can it hide in sight? Ask no mask? Weigh no weight?

Yet scar my face upon the world.

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