A transparency knit by birdsong
clots the intersections of trees.
Although the birds sang themselves
extinct, their memories linger

in a fragile pale diaphony.
You insist we also will outlast
our bodies and ascend to next
layers of being who we were.

Maybe someone will read this
attempt to order a disarray.
Maybe someone will collect
our empty clothes and fill them

with people exhumed from poverty.
You track the afflictions of our pets
as if solving a vicious world
in which no symptom is wasted.

You worry about my eyesight,
which fades into the reddish tones
of my current interior décor.
That sheer of birdsong will last

all winter, despite the wind,
but in spring we’ll have to fold it
away for the future to dissect
and reimagine for itself.

---

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024).  He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors.  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
@williamdoreski (Instagram)