There are ways
of mine I failed
to give to
you. I see
that you stand,
with your hands quietly
settled at the small,
small of your back, not
gripped and shielding
that complex of ganglia—
that place you puff
up and lean in from.
I cannot call
the 4-o’clock birds
back into the sky for
you to watch, but
I’ll ask them, everyday,
for you, I’ll ask them.