He is darking in the shout—

up the earth and down the skies,

like the scratching of the scream

of the racoons in the brush,

the needing in their sound

tree’ing upward to the moon.

Shout the eyes and float the man,

who is one now

with the blindness of the fireflies.

He is pathing on his walk

as he business’es his own mind,

with the darking of the sun and the mooning of the rise,

alone inside the park,

the park alone inside,

and he’s darking in the shout

to the deafness of the eyes

of the passers by’ing past

the little sirens in the wood

and the man who is now one

with the blindness of the fireflies.