On the other side of
my window there is a magpie.
Lonely at 2:20 p.m. Walking through shaded grass
with fleet feet, he is the early night
in this place where the sun laments.
A body of softness, black as granite,
pillowed plume of snow, holy beneath his neck.
His side is
ripped in reflecting blue,
and I am the ghost moving towards him,
as we live between these four walls.
Never with a whisper have I heard him.
I strain to see those wings
darting between two lamp posts,
the grace and the ruse
spent on the film of my eyes.
The plane tree is there, too.
A canvas of leaves, and the
poem finding its way
along covered branches, as they
converse jealously in the wind.
In my four walls, within the four walls
the fan worships my skin, the curtains
shutter, this desk creeks
under the weight of fingers
and words,
while outside
the sky
waits for a cloud.
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