Night Visitor

I’ve had more soothing callers at my window:
the muse brushes by like a dangling scarf;
the helium balloon for my neighbor’s nuptials,


tied to her guardrail, wafts over my way.
Not him. The window demon comes at night
and jabs at a guitar: the jangling discords


and moonless tones call up the ferocious joy
you know only after the burn of sorrow.
He strums the undersides of leaves, roses


the color of blood, silence in the sea’s roar.
Hearing those wails, ears that had been dulled
quicken to danger. Mystery. The quieter muse


blows elegies on a muted trumpet.
Swift angels bless the dead and fly away.
But he lands often, toe-heel, and I tremble.


I tremble all the more when he isn’t there.