The Cockerel Crows

My skin and the echo of hands,

oh! the past has a moon of its own

that rises on its night,

that chimes the blood, ding, 

ding, that rings you like a bell.

He said he used to catch chickens,

he could grip five or six by the legs,

in one fistful, and I imagine them, 

world upturned, clutched tight, 

hearts quickened. Some ran, he said, 

and dropped dead of fright. 
 

A choir of stars, the owl's prayer,

the lurk and blink of hornywink

in the rimy ooze of the evening,

dark as tar, but wait ---

the promise of morning, light, ,

over the red clat of my birth, wait ---

the cockerel finally crows,

I will be home to myself, 

I am coming home to myself.

rimy - damp, cold 

clat - earth 

hornywink - toad 
 
Painting is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Aelbert_Cuyp_Rooster.jpg