The Shadow Plant
The plant etched on the wall sits in its pot
as calm as anything—
as any thing not
human. The cars sough by, less frequent than at day.
If I switched off the light
again, I’d see again how they
trace ghostlike, restless lights across the walls,
emblems of human hunger.
The old wood mantle-clock calls
someone, me, to task—more briskly than a heart.
The shadow clearly forms a parrot, perched
on the edge of the pot,
its head turned to the right—above it, on one side,
a stem with paired leaves stretching out like arms,
and on the other side