Hawthorns

hawthorns run up my window in five note scales   stopped only by their staccatto I lose another day   upstairs, sparrows pluck my skylight to tell me I have blinds   my bread they can see they have my cat in their cannery   in their green belt of time is comfort in the forest of their plight   as the thorns which perch them bend to their relentless crunch and peck   there is a new order: my mock trial   I have become a juried exhibition renting their space.