When our rhymes ran off with the sheep,
trees fell, and then people from windows.
Goodnight moon, we whispered.
The cows ran after it. Jack knocked
over the stick, another forest
burned. Ashes, ashes.
Another statue had a great fall:
the unclothed emperor of the wall
by which the city blocks the sun.
See how they run, our minds
in time. The farmer had a dog,
and the dog went first.
There has to be a better story.
There is.
It sings somewhere,
of the dark times.
It does not rhyme. Apollo
in a minor key, now
dissonant, refuses
the obvious path.
Still, a song exists.
Where?
Here, from this dense
night. Howl.