Upstairs, we can stand on the sill
look down at the backyards
a sorrow of outhouses
and upturned cisterns
tarpaulins flung weeping
rust crumbling up a dead bike
see a sparrow
pluck from a silk strand left under the stem
the prize of a semi-plume

white as a sclera
a perfection of keratin
it grew deep in the dark
of a gull’s breast
was nourished
served devotedly with barbs
against the horror of cold
until its collar grew slack
and it fell.

Always, this preference for the new.

Dedicated to life,
it’s carried with a chirrup
to a crack in the eaves
of my temple
and adding its weight
to the jumble
of paper and string
it glows fat in the dark
like a poem