Both times I died, it was in the Spring--
blackbirds and orioles arrived, their songs caught in my bones
and then released; the chime and ring
of their heartbeats rapid as loss or seasons begun and ended alone.
Look at the lies I tell, my mouth stuffed
full of them, nests of poison and nonsense, or just blowy leaf-rot
assembled into rounds of order by tufted
dandelion balls--birds of instinct, my betters likelier than not.
Both times I died, the summer came anyway,
and I walked all night, a bag of storms wandering from the crossroad
to haunt myself mad, a gibbering roundelay
of keen and commonly human desire, to be sung after all,
from the fire and from the bone.