BIRDS AT 5 a.m.
It’s a disgrace
I don’t know who you are.
But at least this morning,
I listen to your every note
of every phrase, the rhythmic silences,
and the uninterrupted love
flowing from your syrinx.
On the Sunday afternoon of their first weekend together,
they position themselves on a neat bench, next
to the vacant bowling green. His six four and her five
foot nothing dominate play, like a tiny bird landing
on the biggest tree in the park. She pecks and hops
from face to arms, from neck to thighs; then slides,
like a bobsleigher, over his six-pack, spinning
and curving in all directions, like the lover’s choreography
from the final scene in An American in Paris. He smiles
his bemused pleasure. She tweets and tweets the notes
only he can hear.