The bird noises that do not acknowledge us talking come up from behind.
           (A bird halo around my head.
            A bird wreath that will not quiet.)
The trucks arrive.
The traffic passes. (A day of unceasing wind.
                             A blowing that’s cause for rot.)
The birds on their lines attend.
           (An evening of wrestling--
            the chairs, your skirts, the ill-bought umbrella.)
The tree is in the way of the view: fascination with realism.
Human behavior under glass.

If anyone dares to go out, it is you,
the fantastic one. A glowing system to be admired.