Under traffic, a sparrow clings lightly to blue tissue,
scooped for its nest in the poplar’s bent, smooth body.
Wind pulses at the door all day. You cook meat
in a black kettle; its juices drool. My hungry body.
left you in the dream of a blue motel. Empty-handed
you began to dance, sang a song for everybody.
When is a comet a simple blurred eye of dust
and ice? This woman lives in a blanket, is somebody.
She is always looking for home. Wind has helped,
and lovers. They appear in night’s deep body
and love her with the memory of brown wood and snow
in spring. The only home we know: ground, wind, this body.
