The poem
The dark things of the wood Are coming from their caves, Flexing muscle.
They browse the orchard, Nibble the sea of grasses Around our yellow rooms,
Scarcely looking in To see what we are doing And if they still know us.
We hear them, or think we do: The muzzle lapping moonlight, The tooth in the apple.
Put another log on the fire; Mozart, again, on the turntable, Still there is a sorrow
With us in the room. We remember the cave. In our dreams we go back
Or they come to visit. They also like music. We eat leaves together.
They are our brothers. They are the family We have run away from.