What to Call It

To the thrush singing at the woods’ edge
it must look as if I’m hitting myself

but that’s only incidental.
I’m swatting mosquitoes.

*

To the cops at the stadium
it might appear that she’s praying

when she closes her eyes
to see the afterimages on her eyelids.

*

To friends & admirers of the legendary coach
it must’ve seemed so generous,

all the things he gave those boys,
all the places he took them.

*

To us it’s a mournful song
but to the wood thrush itself?

Perhaps just the sound of dusk
passing through its windpipe.


Inspired in part by the currently serializing Fragments issue at
qarrtsiluni.

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