Thursday, May 5, 2022


A little too
self-consciously, I wonder 
what happens

when the sparrows 
in these branches finally run 
out of melody.

Do they pass mundane 
remarks about 
the weather in its place, 

or complain 
about the poverty 
of life in a hawthorn tree? 

Do they bring tedious 
meetings to order 

to dissect the long memos 
which strictly outline 
their routines? 

And if so, would we 
harried and anxious 
passersby still find these 

conversations to be 
sonorous and pleasing 

because we feel,
in some inaccessible
recess of our breasts,

that we've
more or less had the same 
ones before ourselves?