All poetry should have birds.
My beloved, if it has come to this,
I will try to understand.
From the house we once lived in, from the room
that was yours, I hold my arms around myself
and hear you pacing, your thoughts stall and flee,
cold snow in your lungs.
After so many years, if no change appears
there is either speech or action,
and you had never said always and I had never said
completely. Only I knew.
In my dreams there are geese pulling sound,
burdened with cargo. I keep the radio close
and turn off the voices when I sense something near.
I no longer know whom to speak to.
I no longer know what to call you.
Lost-to-me, nested one, night owl.
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