I just have one more little baby poem, and that'll be it for me.
My friend Morgan's in the hospital right now.
He couldn't be here tonight, but I
wanted to dedicate this poem to him and his speedy recovery.
And this poem is called "Sparrow Field,"
and it's going to appear in a journal
that Morgan does, which is out of Tucson called CUE,
and you should find it.
You should know it and love it.
"Sparrow Field."
Appeared on my porch a girl with a book of birds,
and we knew many of their names, recognizing certain beaks.
And any looking memory gives over to chalk.
Dimness gets bolstered and another angle
is squared in a question.
The girl tastes her own fingers, and I try not to notice this.
Twin brothers make a movie about it,
and your memory will fasten your belt
to a man you do not recognize.
Then, a kite rubbed with rabbit fur dips into the sparrow field
and a different girl with big glasses
yells into the megaphone as dogs crash onto its scent.
We are standing in that field.
The light is falling all over, developing us
in the sounds of the chase.
Thank you for being here.
[APPLAUSE]