More Matter, Less Art

As a sycamore on 104th
makes plastic bags fettered to limbs

into garments of muslin and wind,
so have you filled me with holes.

As a fox sparrow under a hedge
behind a fence twits and prets

and goes unnoticed, so have your
small touches worked into my fourth

ventricle an unspoken chorus
I can’t call up and can’t forget.

I forgot to tell you when you left
how I swallowed you while we slept—

not as in the throat, as in
the bird, its unsung note.

 

Originally appeared in Linebreak.