Sometimes the Cosmos tells you what to do;
sometimes it doesn’t; no answer comes
from books of rules or deep inside of you.
There’s something wrong; it’s not clear where it stems.
4-in-the-morning cars pass, occasionally;
a bird is singing almost too far away
to hear it sing and all too quickly
stops – yet sweet enough for the inner ear
to hold onto. Who knows, who can say?
Is it still singing somewhere there
on the edge of hearing, down the road
in someone’s garden – to them a roundelay,
to us a fading cipher? This trickling code
stutters and sinks completely, goes off air.