Visiting Creature.
You think about a poem too much.
Like Spanish moss, it starts killing the tree.
Look, Berkeley spring, a mockingbird has chosen you.
Try to follow his new short songs,
buree, buree, cheat-sheet, and the one that
sounds like maybe I will and maybe I won't do any such thing.
Each time, the gray feathers on the throat part,
it looks like another mouth, as though the song came from that.
But you, your friend has been gone such a short time,
you can't keep her voice in you yet.
Who is noticing her now?
What is this to her?
So many shifts in that bird style,
yet what a pleasure to watch him getting drunk
on juniper berries, resting lightly on his wing bars.
Pretty soon, the borders won't bother you either.
Pretty soon, your loved one will speak forward into this world.