Birds call in the dark,
naming my shuffle steps back to bed,
when I imaged them as gulls
in the park, and I don’t know why.
Bird lovers hunt sound, but landscape eludes
my pillow nest activating a melting mind,
hearing what could not be described
as a crashing dumpster
or a glorious wind-battered sign
around saturated street corners.
Not a thunk on butcher’s moist tiling,
or car crashes trapping causation,
more than leaves settled upon woven mats,
or the dry snag of callused feet:
my doubts wrapped between
waxy, fogged layers. But echoes play out
and on in my mind and I hunt—
sensing unhearing along parkways
and greenways that mask collapsed
gull breath plummeting upward
toward predawn. Rattling first sparrow’s try
at prying open her beak
in memory of an unknown leap
from a high-rise roof.