Night, I ask you
every question as
if you were some
errant forum. It must
be your knowing air.
This is not meant to
annoy you—no—this
probing’s my shape
of devotion. I ask, ask,
ask, ask, ask, when
nox will you knight
me—& you stay so—
still—& I turn on the
storm sounds, whisper in
to the telephone I love
who I love who I love
you not.
