the tangle of my mind like birds heeding a warning:
the shriek of something ravenous stirring.
They fly on inky wings,
flicks and arcs, dots and strokes of black
rising with their notes into the sky’s gap.
The bramble of my brain’s left barren—
no song, no plumes—for nothing
ever exactly repeats,
even when caught in the thorns
of memory: not the cast of light
on an iridescent head, nor the turn
of a thrush’s song at its end.
In the fugitive silence, I am still, waiting,
leaves empty ahead of your shrill rising.