Poem 6/13/11

At dawn, I stand at the window
with a tin can, collecting
the loose change of birdsongs.
It is because I am still
too young for the world that I become
a beggar in the morning,
taking things in to keep myself whole.

I rest my arms on the sill
like clouds on something solid,
and listen to the world
make sense of itself. Something
is always taking flight,
or composing a song. Whole notes
fall from the trees
with reeded edges
and two faces, obverse smiling
in the sun.

It seems a plane is always tiled.

I press myself against the screen
and try to imagine words
squeezing through to the other side,
fully formed.