Long reeds of smoke lift, entering the sky.
Transcendence returns steadily to its old fate.
Morning fades as I drive along the Hanlon.
Somewhere in her house, I’ve misplaced things.
I shouldn’t go back for them,
I’d forget what skimmed my lips,
or the light scent of bread in her hair
that followed. And those first chickadees
who seemed to believe, more or less,
in the seeds hiding among themselves
in edges of snow — of those, what would I forget?
The imperfection of instinct, the bafflement of love.
The morning air, this grace I’ve come into?

3 thoughts on “Instinct

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