you will not know this story
unless you are here, how this river’s april
has so little of comfort
to the dying. picking yesterdays
through debris from the birds
nesting in our worn out
gutters, noting the unfronding
of lilac and hyacinth and other life close
to the ground, I hear sobbing
from two yards over, a woman
not myself, in agony. Stay close to the ground,
I want to say, away from the rooftops, the empty nests.
I call them our; not knowing whether it is true;
I have no other pronouns to offer.