[In the middle of the night you move, Loud God]
In the middle of the night you move, Loud God,
like a rabbit in my body’s field, at the edge,
just out of sight, you stuff me with litter
and grass, build your nest. I wake up
blind as a kit, licked clean.
In the morning you push like roots
through the mud of me, leave cracks
in my crust like texts. In the afternoon
I am the yard, you are the blade, you hum above me,
cut until I am bald. Later, in the day’s last red light,
in what I want and forget, you swing like a spider
then suck out that light, my trees, my city,
you drink down all my thinking like a drain.
In the middle of the night I try your hundred names.
Jeffrey Bean is Associate Professor of English/Creative Writing at Central Michigan University. He is the author of the poetry collection Diminished Fifth (WordTech) and the chapbook Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window (Southeast Missouri State University Press), winner of the 2013 Vern Cowles/Copperdome Poetry Chapbook Prize. Recent poems appear in the journals The Antioch Review, Southern Poetry Review, Cimarron Review, Willow Springs, Smartish Pace, and River Styx, among others.