Please take back the sparrows. They are bothersome and cute. They are brown and daily all year long. They make a plaything of the wind and the spruce. They come too close. They look right at me with their tiny black eyes. They dart through spaces. They pick up the pieces and the pace. From rooftop to eavetrough to wire to branch—they spring spring spring spring spring spring spring. They are not sorry. They are not singing. Many they are one they are never not somewhere. They are not not singing. They are not slack. They fear the bluejay and the airedale. They drink from the pond! They scatter thinking. They are not asking or telling they are scattering thinking they are shivering. They are awake or they are shivering. Please, take back the sparrows. They bathe in dust.
In Which I Am Attacked
I thought it was Spring
and went out without my hat, without
my hatchet. Wrong again. It was Fall
and the swans were eyeing me coldly
from the center of the lake,
preparing to wound me again
with the sight of their beautiful backs.
A little boy ran up
and pulled my hair and ran off.
For months you're a smudge on the rug,
watching the wind blow, maybe taking
your pulse every hour or so, and then
all of a sudden, you're It.
