Tongue Of Birds

First of all, I’m alone
in suffering; that’s flat.

Doesn’t even rise to
two dimensions. It’s trapped

in words so it’s a concept.
It doesn’t pass muster.

In early hours before dawn
I struggle to get it:

why does the sky even bother reddening,
why are there morning clouds?

I could turn off, you know,
and sometimes maybe I should —

but then I hear one true peep,
one twitter; some cockamamie sparrow

is up and at the seeds in the ground
and despite all the noise in my head

I sigh and begin the chores of the day
and the lines in my writing plump out

and pretty soon I forget
them, all of them, as they are not

to be spoken of in the tongue
of birds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T