Nocturnal Sweats

There's hooting in the background. Not just owls,
But all the forest dwellers, every kind:
The weird, the bearded, and the misaligned,
The innocent, with unintended howls,
The guilty, with their predatory growls,
Those screwed-up limbless drinkers, ill-designed
(You'll see when staring bleakly from behind),
And flightless wooden-faced untethered fowls.

They're mocking us — well, mainly me, I guess —
The way we sing out, with our open vowels,
Wiping off our fevered brows with towels,
Answering the call of spring, and yes,
Expecting us to back down, and confess
Nocturnal sweats. I feel it in my bowels.