A flock of dark birds through the trees

emerge at the other side

of where you were.

It’s far back when

you first broke me in.

It’s impossible to

remember it all,
though that was what I’d wanted then,

or so you’d told me. Better off dead—

sonorous phrase, a wave in my inner ear,

which will not wane even as it enervates.

The weathervane, or weather-cock,

creaks as it goes round, round

in the wind.