At home you’ll see
swarms that better converge in the glint of the westward sun
But on our way
the song of the new bird trapped in the shade of the sunroom sky
Something grave,
O, maybe graceful and brave!
If its sloped wings beat the pulse that holds it in place
A sound like a faulty engine hum,
like the motor that spits and it shakes
as it bends to the groan of the / grownover road ahead!
And once we’re there and drawn to the swimming hole darkness
like the wasp that survives in the eye of the open fig
We’ll lose a few days
O, but at least I can pray
for dovetail birds that peak
and swoop in an awkward ballet,
like our bed in secret,
like the gravel that’s shaved from the stone
and it shapes all the bends in the road ahead!