Friday, March 6, 2020


I know it's only a trick—
your mouth
does not actually talk,

your ears are not hearing this,
your eyes do not see.
After years,

your face still looks
the same to me,
though I could swear

I am so much older
even than I am at this moment—
old enough, at least to comprehend

the parts of us
that still interact
are far from the obvious suspects;

just like the organs responsible
for the wood thrush's loneliest singing
are themselves perfectly silent,

and the mechanisms by which
a whole universe longs
to linger on and listen,

though very simple,
could be invisible—or else
very cleverly hidden.