Follow a Sleep Schedule
Before dawn, dreaming of liturgies mumbled alone,
robin song needles into my sleep.
Is it time yet to hope again? There are dead,
and more dead today. What good are all
my intentions? Who else, now, wakes or sleeps
behind glass and brick on this city block and,
hearing it, wants to pass through the eye
of that bird call? The glass is how
we can see but not touch. The birdsong is like
itself—life driven through muscle and air—
and we are no more than this breath, now. This breath
and this one. Again, this breath—this.