Each day I woke as it started to get dark and the pain came month after month of this, who in hell knows when I got well Now with dawn, waking from the rampage of sleep, I am walking in the Lincoln woods A single bird is singing loudly— as I did before I walk here, as though through tall room after room in a house where the owner’s not home, yet observing my behavior from behind the two-way mirror of appearances; listening in on whatever it is I am thinking, listening critically. Not too, though, I even feel liked, I could swear it, at certain brief instants as the sunlight changes swiftly, leaving, leaving and arriving again— that invisible bird is still bittering chirping away, as if the words were meant for me, their intent, the translation within my grasp, and yet it will never come to me. Nothing is left me of you.