Go lift that pane of moonlight from the floor
And tell Nicotiana to stop 
Screaming with her perfume. 
The Four O’clocks too. They’re drunk with dew. 

I gotta date with a hoot owl, 
I gotta date with a whoo. 
Wait for the bird. By the moon-soaked wall. 
By the insect’s hairy legs. 
Wait for that green funeral 
Of the cricket in a pall 
And for the knell that tolls a moth. 
A vast robin as well 
Of the invisible wound that kills a crow. 
Wait till the master of all vermin,