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?
