Because I'm not careful

April 30, 2011

Because I’m not careful

i.

I used to sit and wonder why

the sensitive shadows of the leaves

didn’t correspond to the watery movements

of my hands.

I would have to hide my tapping fingers

because to him, they meant impatience

instead of piano concertos. 

But I picked up these burdens

as if they were those cold, beautiful

Venetian streets

in February. 

ii.

The blackbirds patrol the edge of Lake Ontario.

They navigate the air currents like whitewater rapids,

shuddering against the wind the way you might have,

holding someone’s hand

and walking with her script in your pocket.