First Fight. Then Fiddle.

In my wound, I hear a dog howl, Wind chimes circle—sweet. The wet rocks, the step stones, Wish to whisper in night’s firm grip. Chill the bright and burn the wood, The kittens die on snowed-out ground. Fashion the billows, gods at play. Honey to help when the pitcher spills, Hush your fiery scream today.

• Gwendolyn Brooks