And a poem called "Bird Before Dawn,"
written in Wisconsin in April.
When the clocks go forward again,
the birds get all screwed up and start singing much too early.
If you're feeling lyrical, it's fine.
If you to get some more sleep, you don't feel so great.
It's called "Bird Before Dawn."
Bird before dawn, bird before dawn, I hear you.
Liquid in the dark, long before the light,
hear you after hours of images,
tethered to the great silence.
Eyes closed, lips open, but no music from me.
And now, though I lie, a human in a room,
I'm there in your throat, in the wet center
where the notes swell without words, with merely a man's
tongue.
And oh, my musician, my April chanter, I rise.
I ride out of the winter on your song.