I break through the wall
of my house
at midnight
and leave hastily
jangling like a thief.
I have come North
heavy with prophesy
to tell
of owls crying in daylight
and bats dropping
from the sky
children that wake at night
and call from their graves.
Strange things happen in the air,
and my fingernails ache
from scratching at the sky. I am not
a father now, I am only
a wind in the rushes
bringing news of the distant talk
of strangers. And I carry
fire in my baggage. Tomorrow
I will break through the wall
into your house
and stand over your bed,
bearded and angry, my words
wild things that beat their heads
on your hands. Then I will leave
at nightfall, and fly to the east
on wings made from your hair,
dropping tears like moons
upon the dark land below.
(This kind of leaving
has the urgent drama and romance
of the night).
Call me prophet of feathers
and falling moons.
Call me fool on wings of wax.
Call me the prophet.
