People Like Us

 

—after Robert Bly

 

Morning snaps on

In the trees

And the gold finch who’s my twin

Drinks from a crevice

And then nothing—

No plot in leaves

Only a private

Orphaned mind

Calling itself a soul

(What else?)

 

Recall that abacus

Given by my father

When I was sick

My fingers

Steering

From places

I wouldn’t see

Bird numbers.

There are millions

All over this world

Reading with their fingers

Equations

In railway weeds.

 

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