of an imperfect past,
a rumored present
- li-young lee
ARAR
If I Don’t Feed the Birds Someone Else Will
Dalton Day
A horrible way of feeling, like wet socks
or a typo when saying good-bye.
The socks can be removed, it’s true.
The good-bye is the removal.
From the window, finches mostly,
dappled red heads like strawberries
between the branches of whatever tree.
I should learn the names for things, but.
I have enough belief in words. As it is.
Higher Noon
Dalton Day
There arrives a point when your shadow
is no longer your shadow. Let me explain.
Let me point at the sun with one hand
& shield my eyes with the other.
I cannot look at what I cannot grieve
appropriately. The jar of cherries
I left in the bagging area. My friend,
who, when sad, knocked three times
on his own chest, explaining that
one of these days that damn bird would
open the door & let him in.
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