Before the Chickens

I am ashamed to have woken
before the chickens, and the now
useless rooster. Uncomposed,
the burbling of their morning
salutations, and formless,
the silhouettes of sound
they will cast on my fence
from the neighbor’s side.
I have no chickens of my own,
so I must wait to delight
in the chickens of others.

People say ungodly
to mean very early or late--
a heresy ironically arisen
from our dismay at impenetrable
umbras, which are a kind
of halo. No, this hour
is merely unchickenly,
hearts like rosebuds gently,
gently pulsing. Life elusive
in alabaster chambers

within chambers. I must wait
to delight in the chickens,
to obtain that buoyancy
of spirit only gleaned
from the babble of things
with feathers. Bathed
in crepuscular blue, like
everything at this hour,
I pace the fence, untimely
and impotently woken,
some Hamlet’s ghost.