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     [W]hat song could be smaller
than that of its own name?  —giovanni singleton

How headlong,
the robin’s exuberant

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, 

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

Laurie Klein

Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens and Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh. A winner of the Thomas Merton poetry prize and Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared in The Christian Century, Presence, Ruminate, St. Katherine Review, Relief, ATR, and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and blogs monthly at