It was probably a sleepless
thrush, or a lady blackbird out
In the morning to center me.
Later in the week a green tree
(not an unnecessary word
this green, as it was) is filled up
by a murmuration. Words fail
to register all of the ways
that words fail. Over the next months
poetry leaves me as I hold
my black plastic controller and
curl up in bed as the womb hurts
curl up around an old and new
goal, to have the numbers raise up
and buttons click neatly and soft
as the shots of unreal guns sound
As the game becomes my home, I
hold myself in the vibrant light
and lines cut to suit the dull eye
and suspended in a rest mode
I wait until the suspense that comes
from restraints, as in chess, or love
is suspended in turn and light
of sun over the river grows