Archive > Vol. 11 no. 1
D. Nurkse
Fringillidae
finch
Still in the sac
before I am
I hear my mother’s song—
fluent, baffled,
two clicks and a long
cascading note.
I do not know
there is an outside
or an opposing will
but I know the cost
of what seems effortless.
Newborn in sleep
I practice that catch:
you the watcher
looking into my mind
with laser and sonoscope
measure the waves
in the dreaming brain:
two brief stumbles
and a long fall.
It is the trance of desire
faint and cold
in the drizzling pines—
a pattern on a gauge
graphed on an axis—
the music that created you.