On it lives one bird
who commences singing, for some reason best known to
itself, at precisely 4 a.m.
Each day I listen for it in the night.
I too have a song to say alone
but can’t begin. On it, surrounded by blocks of
black warehouses,
is located this room. I say this room, but no one
knows
how many rooms I have. So many rooms how shall I
light
so many . . . Also yours, though you are never
there.
It’s true I’ve been gone a long time.
But I have come back. I have.
Where are you?
I can change.
