​

We watch each other

Like two accustomed

To what the season entails – bloom

Of identity, as it slips,

Pistol to pistil. 

 

These fragmentary hours

Have chilled the eye

And made me wish

To speak what I can never know,

To roll and strum this breath – 

 

Some other poet, some other bird

Lifelike, in a cell,

Or gusted round the eve,

But ours is the sound

Of fleeting counterpoint.