The air conditioner disturbs the birds,
         the church bells; they think these things are calling to them.

Does this mean anything to you, as you mourn
        this or that, as big rain falls from a blue sky? Probably not

in your lifetime will you conceive of such
	magnanimous panic—searching the white skies over, over

for a lover, morning in, night out. Consider 
        your hands that cannot fly. See the red face of the tiny bird—

You, yes you, I’m speaking to the you
	who is so absent from me that your absence is an absence

is an absence is an absence. I miss you
	and having the thought, having it be rational, that you’re

calling to me, from down the street. And now
        another hour brings another frenzy of turning back the shadows

for love. I won’t find you if you don’t hurt first 
        with the birds up above.