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.