By Gibson Fay-LeBlanc

As a sycamore on 104th makes plastic bags fettered to limbs

into garments of muslin and wind, so have you filled me with holes.

As a fox sparrow under a hedge behind a fence twits and prets

and goes unnoticed, so have your small touches worked into my fourth

ventricle an unspoken chorus I can’t call up and can’t forget.

I forgot to tell you when you left how I swallowed you while we slept —

not as in the throat, as in the bird, its unsung note.

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