Listen:
The sparrow still
Beats its wing’s
Time in
Signature, outpacing
The steady thrum
Of your racing
Heart.
You press your
Temple to the pane,
Heat rolling from
Cheek to glass,
Clouding the surface
Smooth, now,
Smooth
And grey rime –
Proof that
You are living, still.
Today, your morning
Cup of coffee tasted
Like silt, slithering
Down your
Sticky wind-
Pipe, settling
Hard,
In your belly like
So many pebbles and
Stones.
Oh,
To belong to
The forgiving earth
Again. Oh,
To belong.
So, what
Were you
Before
The day
Your mother
Felt your little
Nudging swell?
Before the
Milk began to
Well, and she
Resented, perhaps,
The pain that
Longed to be felt?
What were you,
In the brisk wind
Winnowing down the
New Year’s
Fractured back,
Two hundred and forty two
Moons past?
Listen,
White-throat,
Squall-babe:
It is winging
Its way back to you.
