[W]hat song could be smaller
than that of its own name? —giovanni singleton
How headlong,
the robin’s exuberant
joy—versus
the shining illusion
of space, thrown back
by a window: one
crack-bone thunk,
then the aftershock
thud. Unforgiving
cement warms, a little,
beneath the spasm and flail,
that craning beak.
But three final sighs
of a wing
signal Not there.
Later, perhaps, we see only
absence, the seemingly broken,
flown.
Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash
