She had no song to sing herself asleep Tonight, but she would need no song to sing. A thousand thoughts ran past her in a brief Unhurrying minute, on small, quiet feet But did not change her. Nothing could change her now. —Black winter night against the windowpane And she, a child, singing her fear to sleep With nursery-rhymes and broken scraps of tunes. How well she could remember those old songs. But this night she would sleep without a song Except the song the earth knows in the night After the huge embrace of the bright day, And that was better. She thought to herself. “I don’t know. I can’t think. I ought to be scared. I ought to have lots of maybes. I can’t find them. It’s funny. It’s different. It’s a big pair of hands Pushing you somewhere⁠—but you’ve got to go. Maybe you’re crazy but you’ve got to go. That’s why Mom went. I know about Mom now. I know how she used to be. It’s pretty sweet. It’s rhymes, it’s hurting, it’s feeling a bird’s heart Beat in your hand, it’s children growing up, It’s being cut to death with bits of light,