Star-nosed mole sang to me

The night squirms
and blows the past to me
through my curtains
in perfect waves that leave me dying.
I stare at the leaves
who are happily deserting,
made into honeycomb
by the light and the year.
And I listen
as I'm encouraged to disolve,
to slide in, to be,
by a star-nosed mole
who sits outside my window
and sings to me,
sings with a voice
that contains the wind
and the leaves,
the motors and bees
and all those dark fields
seen from a train.
It's a bad,
drunken voice,
but it's God all the same,
and it gives itself completely
as the sacrifice
of your one, lonely love.
It burrows through me,
gives me perfect, horrifying pain
that bleeds me,
merges me into the night
as I scream my assent
through a gag of tears,
aching to join the Red King's dream,
to find my negation,
to be one note
sung by the mole.