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


From places

I wouldn’t see

Bird numbers.

There are millions

All over this world

Reading with their fingers


In railway weeds.