August 1, 2011
It’s spring. The sparrow dies instantly. Quick bang, the streetcar suspended. Small black body. You can still see white, speckled, small grains of rice across the back, twittering youth. You insist on a proper burial. Together we glide through the city, bird cupped in our palms. The concrete, post-rain, bleak and lunar. We speak elliptically, sleep-talk about death, wings immobilized in flight. The air thickens, we breathe out. Our hulls contain us, solemn as prayer, our delicate shells of bone . . .