On this side of the house I wake to birdsong,
the clockradio blazing all the fours.
Finches and wood pigeons have no restraint,
twittering on off and during the hour;
you’d think they owned the day.
Look at them, dulcet on the teetering house,
their double-throats giving forth in harmony,
while in here red marks the split.
Red the throat and red the eyes
and red the possibility.
The path of heart is always anginal.
In our room I never heard the birds.
He’s on his own these nights in the Mexican bed
and I’m like a country girl in a flat,
sleeping with computers and books, waking
to my notebook and unruffled sheets.
Nothing comes easy but birds at the sun’s dial
and my sudden smile when I hear a difference,
a raucous trill among the sweets,
the one who’ll always stand alone.
If I had listened more
I might not have dragged him through this hollow
without a strut or preen, silent as fear,
indexed to the rustle in the brush.
I might have wished him pleasant days
and less in a mutter than I do now,
our faces passing each other like visions
over another uneaten toast and cheese.