Listen
I listen to the slight and broken tunes
you half sing about the house
or whistle to the thrush outdoors
as if you knew its need
for leaf and food and echo.
You can float a day
upon this inner sound
which enters with the air
and carried there shapes
the pieces of your song
as it falls and starts and fades
with the rhythm of quiet hands,
folding, turning, or perhaps
when the bird is doing nothing
tunefully, it is as sleepy lovers’ talk
when one half hears the other speak
and half replies.