You think you’ve memorized the calls
of North American birds, particularly
in the East, but one night you hear a call
like a whistle someone is not blowing
like a whistle someone is not blowing
hard enough: the ball inside just rattling,
rolling. You see a forested mountain,
rolling. You see a forested mountain,
and dusk is suddenly thick with words,
as if you could hover your cursor
as if you could hover your cursor
above the pastiche of greens and see
each name pop up: juniper, citrine, celadon,
each name pop up: juniper, citrine, celadon,
hunter, fern. I’d say only in a dream,
but doesn’t this sort of thing happen
but doesn’t this sort of thing happen
all the time? One night you find yourself
on a dark street in the suburbs, with air
on a dark street in the suburbs, with air
that smells like cut grass—jungle, myrtle,
viridian, spring—and laundry steam.
viridian, spring—and laundry steam.
