a knock driftingi keep opening my eyes and seeing
a long bird fly backwards across the windshield vertically
in the blue dusk.
it has to be more than one bird because
we are travelling, away from
where all long birds go at dusk, apparently.
it confuses the notion of circularity
at least, repetition a visual or heard match
of sensation on sensation, nonextant--
nothing's ever the same, is it, not even
two birds flying to the same place through the same sky
seen from the same car.
wrap deep about me twilight and deny
and deny that sense, that sound or sight, ever does less
or more than keep me safe.
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