The poem you are holding in your hands
Is the true story of what never happened.
My bird, a finch, came back today
Though where she went
I will never know.
She had once
A broken leg
Which has healed brokenly—
Also the true story
Of what never happened—
I am not a truth teller.
This morning
Wind crosses the lake
Like a speech
On temperance.
Stay awake, it says.
My bird, a finch, came back today.
