I will spare them the ceiling
spare them the sheets,
and the clumsy tumble in between,

but outside, two cats fought
something epic on the back steps

a bird hatched and, night-blind,
fell to its death

my good shovel was stolen
but not the radio

a street light was out
my neighbors were home.

And even though I have always felt sad for the leaves
that would never know the trees again,

for the way nothing in nature
apologizes when one piece dies so the whole can live,

I have stopped keeping the leavings,
can look at a shell like my hair in the bathtub

and not make it bloat with meaning.
I shook out all the pressings darkening the pages of my dictionary,

I used a hand-trowel
to bury the dead bird.

See? No fumbled buttons,
writhing, gasps, shared breathing,
I’ve kept my word.

Anna Finn