Held, no stilled, there the hours

almost elegy, certain parting, where
a bird sounds like glass, where a bird

sounds out something that resemble
most whatever in us hollowed, as if

the body a foot of a hill carved out,
maybe small incline, small rise, smallest

elevation, & always all that elsewhere
elsewhere, where unmoving we’ve stalled,

kept at near-hover. To make of the day’s
news a map, some direction we might

turn, we should learn to pronounce each
name, practice every address, say little

winged sparrow, little starling, little some
-thing or other—like that, only more exact.





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