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.