Sometimes they are ringing
incisions, when to listen to them
you believe you have spoken.
They could be crooked-mouthed birds
singing without melody, hanging from a tree
far away, strained from your dispassion.
Maybe clotted rodents by the door
whose fear prevents the will
of their feet to intervene our silent joys.
Or rushes that split the wind
though the air continues like colors
mixed by its opposite tone.
But before they have penetrated us
and we believe their stories,
they are flits in a still air
ruled by an unnamable fixture
that was once named by our birth
and bound to what we were to become.