A field sparrow 
is at my window, 
tapping at its reflection, 
a tired 
New England god 
trying to communicate

it’s getting to me

as I set out to sing 
the nimbus of flora 
under a partly mottled sky

as I look at the end 
and sing so what, 
sing live now, 
thinking why not

I’m listening and 
receiving now 
and it feeds me,
I’m always hungry

when the beautiful 
is too much to carry 
inside my winter

when my library is full of loss 
full of wonder

when the polis is breaking 
and casts a shadow 
over all of me, 
thinking of it

when the shadows fall
in ripples, when 
the medium I work in 
is deathless and 
I’m living inside 
one great example 
of stubbornness

when my head is stove in 
by a glance, when the day’s
silver-tipped buds sway in union, 
waving to the corporate sky

when I said work 
and meant lyric

when I thought I was done 
with the poem as a vehicle 
to understand violence