Sport 31: Spring 2003
Fled is that music
Fled is that music
All your sleeves
unravell'd.
You are losing hold
of your leaves; they
flake from you, wind-scaled
and thankful.
After so much
control, such falling
apart: memory's short term
then school's out—
the birds disperse and wheel
over alien corn.
A constant effort drains
your sense. Just sometimes you'll
overhear a longer singing
on viewless wings, his small
melodious plot staked out
from a bare branch in the ashfield.