Echo

Remember these November trees
scrawled against the sky,
birds that flew by twos,
the alley, houses, either side,
that echoed the departing geese
banking long and wide,
taken ever southward
by the marker in their eyes.

As have other men,
I watch you reach, watch you bend
to the stove, sink,
knives, forks and bowls.
I whistle with the pipes
as the heat begins to rise,
hear my own voice in the alley,
feel the trembling of my thighs,
ever taken to your mouth
by the marker in my eyes.


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