A bird re-entering a bush,
like an idea regaining
its intention, seeks
the missed discoveries
before attempting
flight again.
The small black spirit 
tucks in its wings,
softest accordion
whose music is 
the perfect landing,
the disappearance
into the dangerous
wintered body
of forsythia. Just as
from time to time
we need to seize again
the whole language
in search of
better desires.
If we could only imagine
a better arc
of flight; you get
just what you want.
And see how beautiful
an alphabet becomes
when randomness sets in,
like mother tired
after disappointment,
and keeping us
uninformed—the man
walking away whom we
want to recall
and in whom we invest
the whole explanation.
One in the hand,
one in the mind,
how clearly you know
what you have, how clearly
what he’ll want to do, and do
when you let go.