Your dress still hanging in the sycamore
When I woke, and painted invisibly, the air
At my eyes full of forget with what
You must have said, and what the birds say,
Or don’t, or you did not, or I don’t hear
What other times the tree’s arms’ movements bear,
What else is left to paw after, at,
With lonely fingers, the keys of morning’s play.
The birds aren’t singing loud enough, whiskey-
Clarified branches glint in morbid dew
Where dead birds live, to bravado a climb
Up that tree, take down your dress, redo the done,
Rethroat your songs, and cause again the cry
You put us in, going quickly slowly on.
