Afterword

Sunrise, and I
consume the bird nest. Time

unassuming, like habits
from long ago, sharpness dulled
into bluntness.

The landscape obscured.

When I look from the bridge,
I see my brother’s habits

in the swollen river. His hair next
to mine, like lugs of leaves, infantile
in water. Even now,

we are growing,
the hills glowing and assembling
with the yellow yoke. This is what

the day holds for us:
the unaccustomed window, the lighted
room, the empty glass. And quickly,

time passes, as usual.

Until we become
a composition of the river, with
little left for occasion
or for flight, crowded into

water that dries eventually.

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