I spied a finch in December, nesting among the half-dressed and half-dying,
Solanum Crispum Glasnevin.    A bird out of synch?
Perhaps it’s from a book I haven’t read that you gained this knowing
of how to move and when,    speaking in these odd and angled languages
and I wonder how you know these things    and why I don’t.
That you sing from your solar plexus not your throat and move in some
known configuration of advance and withdrawal,    accomplished and complete.

Let’s throw rocks at streetlights    and teach me to speak
in a dusk without artifice, until we whisper to the light’s withdrawal
and the interminable murmur    of a world falling softly asunder
outside the garden borders    so finely meted out,
until we no longer see nor hear each other,    leaving only
the intermingling of sleeping limbs that speak
some strange language.