there are times
when the shrill
voices beyond my
curtains rev into
threatening barks
melodious in their
arrangement,
each call takes on the
the thrust of
a heaving javelin,
acute in its course
the brightness of
the sun becomes a
spotlight for the
watch-guard in the sky,
and my front
door twists into
the maw of some
grave animal, waiting
within my place,
time slyly passes,
and the voices of
the shrill devolve
into a smattering
cloud of inconsequential
noise
and the sun, now
timid, flickers in the
abandonment of
its keep, while my
front door recedes
back into the stasis
of the growing night