Almost everyday now it happens—
that splat against glass.
Seen from outside, these large
windows of my stucco house
float a mirage of trees and sky
like rooms mirrored to repeat
How they repeat themselves!
Since sunup, a party line of old news
ricochets, tree to tree. Now one
sounds his single song from the elm;
distant pines are a choir of mimicry.
Like lovers constantly needing
to reassure each other, themselves,
they give to get back.
Only the pitch, the emphasis alters,
as in: “I love you”; “I love
Any phrase, repeated enough,
is a small death. Undressed
and jewelled in white, I find them
in bushes, in beds,
or sometimes, on the cement steps,
only dazed and leaking
burgundy under the belly.
Daft by the berries’ wine, June days
they sail blind. Lured by the bird
that blooms on a pane of glass,
like the bodies echo
soaring back into itself,
they break whole on impact.
Loving you is like that.
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