Tonight the suburban sky is dark, pine trees darker, crows darker still.

In the day’s last light, trees are still, books are still—all but my mind is still.

As a truck’s reverse alarm sounds, I expect the rain to fall backwards.

Guthrie Martin residence, two sides of a bedroom window, 5:02 p.m. May 25, 2010:

The oil-dark bird flew from my attic, turned to look at me through the glass.

My language no longer matches up with my perceptions: It tells lies.

The birds are handled and washed, handled and washed, handled and washed, handled.

We strap foam pieces to our feet and move forward at a plodding pace.

Halfway there, I turn and turn again, until there becomes here; here, there.

Your lectures about the rights of mannequins make me admire you more.